Chapter 3: The Ghost of Horizon
Chapter 3: The Ghost of Horizon
The metal pipes of the scaffolding were slick with moisture, and my bare feet slipped against the wooden planks as I helped Rachel climb up to the first tier. The heavy silk slip of my wedding dress snagged on a rusted bolt, tearing a long strip from the hem, but I didn't care. Every drop of high-society conditioning, every lesson in etiquette and grace my mother had drilled into me, was burning away, leaving only the raw, primal instinct to survive.
Below us, David and another man reached the base of the scaffolding.
“Claire!” Blake’s voice echoed through the courtyard. He walked out from the vestry, his black tuxedo still pristine, save for a small smear of dust on his lapel. He looked up at us, his expression one of profound disappointment, like a schoolmaster dealing with a stubborn child. “This is beneath you. Look at yourself. You’re ruining a five-hundred-thousand-dollar event for a criminal. Come down, and we can talk about this like rational adults.”
“You framed my best friend, Blake!” I screamed down at him, my voice echoing off the stone walls of the cathedral. “You used my foundation to wash dirty money! You’re a monster!”
Blake sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “The world is complicated, Claire. The foundation was dying before I stepped in. I gave it funding. I gave it a purpose. So what if a few accounts had to be routed differently? It’s how business is done. Your father understands that. Or rather, he used to.”
“What did you do to my father?” I demanded, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Nothing... yet,” Blake said, his voice dropping into a chillingly conversational tone. “He’s currently in the back of a town car, experiencing a very stressful medical episode. If you bring that drive down here right now, I will ensure he receives the absolute best medical attention Whitman money can buy. If you don't... well, old men with weak hearts pass away every day. Especially under stressful circumstances.”
Rachel caught my eye, her face streaked with tears and dirt. “He’s lying, Claire. He won't let Arthur live either way. Once the audit trail is gone, your father is a liability.”
I knew she was right. Blake was a sociopath, a man who viewed human lives as entries on a spreadsheet. If I gave him the drive, he would eliminate all three of us to ensure his secret remained buried forever.
“We have to get to the roof,” I whispered to Rachel. “The rectory connects to the old library next door. There’s a fire escape that leads to the public alleyway.”
We crawled higher, the wind picking up, whipping my hair across my face. David was climbing up the scaffolding behind us, his heavy boots rattling the metal structure. He was faster than us, closing the distance with terrifying ease.
We reached the third tier, where the renovation work was incomplete. Heavy bags of mortar and stacks of loose bricks sat on the wooden planks.
“Rachel, help me,” I said, grabbing a heavy bag of mortar. Together, using every ounce of strength we had left, we rolled the fifty-pound bag over the edge of the plank.
It fell directly onto the tier below, striking the metal support beam right next to David’s head. The bag burst upon impact, filling the air with a thick, choking cloud of grey dust. David yelled, blinded and coughing, his foot slipping from the metal rung. He slid down several feet, his hands scrambling for purchase before he managed to catch himself on a lower bar.
“Go! Go!” I urged Rachel.
We scrambled through an open window frame into the interior of the rectory. The inside was a cavernous, dark space filled with exposed studs, smell of drywall, and plastic sheeting that flapped in the wind. It was a maze of construction.
We ran blindly through the corridors, our footsteps muffled by the sawdust on the floor. Behind us, we could hear the sounds of more men entering the building from the lower levels. Blake was flushing us out.
“In here,” Rachel whispered, pulling me into what looked like an old dumbwaiter shaft, the mechanical cables rusted but the wooden carriage still intact, wedged between the floors.
We squeezed into the narrow space, pulling a sheet of plywood over the opening just as footsteps heavy and hurried passed by outside.
Through a small crack in the plywood, I watched as Blake himself walked down the hallway. He had drawn a small, silver pistol from his pocket. The polished metal looked elegant, almost delicate, in his hand.
“Claire,” he called out, his voice smooth, echoing through the empty rooms. “I know you’re in here. You don't know how to survive in the dark, darling. You’ve lived in a glass house your entire life. Come back to the light. I’m still willing to forgive you.”
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Beside me, Rachel was trembling so hard her teeth were clicking. I pressed my hand over her mouth, pulling her close against me. The flash drive was hidden inside the lace trim of my slip, pressing against my ribs like a second heart.
As Blake’s footsteps faded down the hall, I realized something. He was right about one thing—I had lived in a glass house. But he had forgotten who built that house. My father had built it, and he hadn't raised a victim. He had raised a Vance.
