Chapter 6 - THE PEARL BRACELET
I backed away from the door, my hand clamped over my mouth to keep from screaming. The blood was pooling on the expensive Persian rug.
Martin wasn't a victim of Celeste's scam. He was her accomplice. Her father had committed suicide, and Martin was her uncle. The man who had raised her. The dinner table confrontation had been a carefully orchestrated piece of theater to get Gabriel to drop his guard and kick Celeste out, giving her the perfect alibi while Martin's men stormed the estate.
"Mom?" Molly whimpered from under the desk.
"Shh," I hushed her gently, frantically scanning the room. The French windows led out to a steep slate roof. It was a three-story drop to the stone courtyard below. We couldn't go out there.
Smash!
The heavy oak doors shuddered as Martin kicked them. The wood splintered around the deadbolt.
"You can't hide, maid," Martin sneered through the wood. "Celeste has Gabriel in the cellar. He's bleeding out. You give me the ledger your rat husband hid, and I let the kid live."
My heart hammered against my ribs. The ledger. Everyone wanted this phantom book that David supposedly hid. But David hadn't left me a book. He had left me in debt.
Wait.
He left me in debt.
My mind raced back to the day the police brought me his belongings. A wallet, clothes, and his watch. I had sold the watch to pay for Molly's asthma medication. The wallet had been empty, except for Molly's drawing and a few receipts.
The rosary.
I reached up and touched the silver crucifix still hanging around my neck. Gabriel said it was his mother's. It was heavy. Too heavy for a hollow cross.
Smash! The door hinges groaned. He was going to break through on the next kick.
I grabbed a heavy bronze bookend from a nearby shelf. I wrapped the rosary around my fist, positioned the crucifix on the edge of the mahogany desk, and brought the bronze bookend down as hard as I could.
Crack.
The silver cross split open along a hidden seam.
It wasn't solid silver. It was a locket.
A tiny, tightly rolled piece of microfilm fell out onto the desk.
I stared at it. This was it. This was the ledger. David hadn't hidden a book; he had hidden a micro-ledger inside the very thing Gabriel would recognize, hoping the Caruso family would eventually find it.
"Gotcha," a voice snarled.
The study doors burst open. Martin stood in the doorway, holding a heavy crowbar in one hand and a suppressed pistol in the other.
I snatched the microfilm off the desk and shoved it deep into my pocket.
Martin stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the space before locking onto me. He smiled, a cold, empty expression. "Hand it over, Beth."
"I don't have anything," I said, backing away toward the window.
"Don't lie to me," Martin said, raising the gun. "I saw you break the cross. Give me the film."
He took a step forward. As he did, his foot caught on something under the desk.
Molly.
She had crawled out, trying to run to me. Martin reached down with lightning speed, grabbing her by the back of her dress and hauling her into the air.
"No!" I screamed, dropping the bookend and lunging forward.
Martin pressed the barrel of the gun to Molly's temple. "Ah, ah. Stop right there."
Molly was crying silently, her small hands clutching her cheap plastic pearl bracelet—the one she wore every day, a prize from a school carnival.
"Give me the film, Beth," Martin demanded. "Or the little genius doesn't get to go to Briarwood. She doesn't go anywhere."
My hands shook as I reached into my pocket. I pulled out the tiny roll of microfilm. It felt like holding a live grenade.
"Let her go," I pleaded, holding it out. "Please, take it. Just let her go."
Martin smirked. "Toss it on the floor."
I dropped the film. It rolled to a stop on the bloody carpet.
Martin didn't let Molly go. Instead, he tightened his grip, dragging her toward the door. "Good girl. Now, we're going to take a little walk. You come follow us in two minutes. If you scream, she dies."
"You promised!" I yelled, tears streaming down my face.
"I lied," Martin said, turning toward the hallway.
Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the darkness of the corridor.
A hand reached out, grabbing Martin by the throat and slamming him violently against the doorframe.
It was Gabriel.
His white evening shirt was soaked in blood, his face bruised and cut, but his eyes were blazing with a terrifying, primal fury.
He didn't use a gun. He drove his knee into Martin's stomach, forcing the older man to drop Molly.
I dove forward, catching Molly as she fell, pulling her safely out of the doorway.
Martin gasped for air, trying to raise his gun, but Gabriel caught his wrist, twisting it sharply until the bone snapped with a sickening crack. The gun clattered to the floor.
Gabriel threw Martin to the ground, standing over him like an avenging angel.
"You touch a child in my house?" Gabriel roared.
Before Gabriel could deliver another blow, the sharp wail of police sirens pierced the night air. Red and blue lights began flashing through the French windows, illuminating the bloody study.
May you like
Martin laughed, a wet, ragged sound, spitting blood onto the carpet.
"You're too late, Gabriel," Martin wheezed. "Celeste already made the call. She gave the cops the wire transfers. Your accounts. Your name. She framed you for all of it. They aren't here to save you. They're here to arrest you."
