Chapter 4: The Iron Gates at Dawn
The man in the doorway didn't step inside. When the beam of his flashlight caught the towering silhouette of Brutus and the cold, unblinking glare of Julian Vance standing over the mahogany desk, he muttered an oath and backed away into the shadows of the gallery. We heard the heavy oak front door slam shut a moment later, the echo rolling through the high-ceilinged foyer like distant thunder.
"That was Marcus Vance, wasn't it?" I asked, looking up at Julian as he let out a long, ragged exhale and released his grip on the dog's collar.
"My cousin," Julian said, his voice dropping into an icy register that made the hairs on my arms stand up. "He runs the compliance division for the holding company. If he saw those ledgers, he knows we're holding the smoking gun." He knelt down, pulling the cedar panel open again and grabbing the red-ribboned folders. He tucked them securely inside the inner pocket of his dark suit. "We have twenty minutes before Marcus returns with private security and a court order signed by a judge he owns."
"We can't leave the dogs," I said, thinking of the kennels out back.
"Brutus stays with us," Julian said flatly, striding toward the conservatory doors with a new, dangerous purpose in his step. "The rest of the estate staff are already compromised. We're going to the county courthouse in Oak Creek before the morning docket opens."
By the time the first pale streak of dawn cut across the iron gates of the estate, we were packed into the sedan. The heavy rain had washed the drive clean, leaving the gravel smelling of wet earth and crushed pine. As Julian shifted into gear, the headlights swept across the wrought-iron pillars where the local sheriff's cruiser sat idling across the road, its amber light blinking through the mist.
Sheriff Miller stepped out from beneath the shelter of his roof rack, tipping his tan Stetson back as Julian rolled down the driver's side window.
"Morning, Mr. Vance," the sheriff said, his eyes flicking past Julian to where Brutus's massive head filled the entire rear passenger window, his teeth just visible above the leather upholstery. "Got a call about unauthorized personnel on the Moretti grounds."
Julian didn't flinch. He leaned his forearm against the steering wheel, his expression as hard and polished as river stone. "We're handling family business, Sheriff. And if you interfere with my custody of these premises or this child under current probate emergency provisions, I'll have my firm's federal litigators auditing your county pension before you finish your morning coffee."
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Sheriff Miller stared at Julian for three long, silent seconds, then glanced at me sitting in the front passenger seat, my pink dress smoothed neatly over my lap. He slowly lowered his notepad.
"Just keep off the public highway shoulders, Mr. Vance," the sheriff said, turning back toward his cruiser. "Things are getting messy in town."
