Chapter 12: The Rose Garden Incursion
We returned to the Moretti mansion late Sunday night, the heavy mahogany front doors creaking open to an unsettling stillness. The grand foyer smelled faintly of old dust and polished brass, but something else hung in the air—a sharp, metallic scent that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Brutus picked up on it instantly, his ears pinning back flat against his skull as a low, menacing snarl vibrated in his throat.
"Someone's been through here," Julian whispered, loosening his tie and pulling a small metal tactical flashlight from his suit pocket. He flicked it on, the bright LED beam cutting through the darkened hallway toward the library.
I followed closely behind him, my hand knotted firmly in the spikes of Brutus's collar. The mansion study—the very room where my father had collapsed weeks ago—had been completely ransacked. Books were pulled haphazardly from the mahogany shelves, their pages fluttering onto the Persian rug. The heavy oak desk drawers hung open, their contents strewn across the floorboards. The digital wall safe behind my father's portrait stood wide open, its steel door scratched and scarred.
"They were looking for the original toxicology report," Julian said grimly, kneeling to inspect a broken silver letter opener resting near the baseboard. "They didn't realize Henderson gave us the physical copy."
Suddenly, a sharp snap of a dry twig echoed from just outside the French doors leading out to the rear rose garden. Brutus didn't hesitate. He lunged forward with explosive, terrifying speed, his heavy paws slamming against the glass pane of the door before Julian could catch the latch. The glass cracked in a spiderweb pattern outward.
"Out the side corridor!" Julian ordered, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the conservatory bypass.
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We sprinted through the darkened greenhouse, the humid air thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming orchids. Brutus took the lead, his powerful body navigating the narrow flagstone paths like a ghost in the dark. Through the glass panes of the greenhouse, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a dark figure scrambling across the gravel path toward the old carriage house near the eastern property line.
"He's cornered," Julian muttered, his voice cold and resolute as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone to alert the county sheriff. "Let's see how brave Marcus's hired fixers are when they meet a two-hundred-pound mastiff."
