Chapter 11 - Flames in the Night
Z
The drive back to Bainbridge Island was quiet. The rain had stopped, giving way to a clear, starlit sky over the dark waters of Puget Sound. Griffin drove his Maybach onto the private ferry, leaning back against the leather seat, staring out at the gentle waves.
For the first time in his life, he felt truly free. The corporate empire he had built out of anger and pride was no longer his anchor. He had secured his family’s financial future beyond measure, liquidated his personal shares into secure trusts for Hazel and Iris, and closed the final chapter of the Mercer family’s vendetta.
By the time he drove off the ferry and reached the winding, tree-lined road leading to his property, it was nearly 8:30 PM.
As he crested the final hill overlooking his land, Griffin’s blood suddenly ran ice-cold.
Thick, dark plumes of smoke were billowing into the night sky. Orange flames danced violently against the dark treeline near the back of the property.
"No... No!" Griffin roared, slamming his foot onto the gas pedal.
The Maybach surged forward, crashing through the wooden entrance gate that hung partially open. Griffin slammed the brakes in the driveway, jumping out of the car before the engine even cut off.
The main house was untouched, but fifty yards away, the timber barn—Sloan’s art studio—was fully engulfed in towering, roaring flames. The wooden beams were crackling, sparks flying into the night air like angry red embers.
"Sloan!" Griffin screamed, sprinting toward the burning structure. "Sloan! Girls!"
"Griffin!"
He spun around. Sloan was standing near the edge of the lawn, holding Hazel and Iris tightly against her chest, a thick wool blanket wrapped around the crying girls. Her face was smeared with dark soot, her eyes wide with terror.
Griffin ran to them, throwing his arms around all three, lifting Sloan off her feet as he checked every inch of her body for injuries. "Are you hurt?! Are the girls hurt?!"
"We're okay! We're okay!" Sloan sobbed into his shoulder, her body shaking violently. "We were inside the house eating dinner when the alarm went off! The studio... someone threw something through the back window!"
"Did you see who it was?!" Griffin demanded, his heart hammering in his throat.
"No!" Sloan wept, looking back at the roaring inferno that was consuming months of her hard work, her antique tools, and her precious restored paintings. "It happened so fast! The fire spread in seconds!"
A loud, terrifying CRACK echoed through the yard as the main timber roof of the barn collapsed inward, sending a massive geyser of sparks and flame forty feet into the sky.
Griffin pulled them further back toward the main house, shielding his daughters' faces from the blinding heat.
Minutes later, the wail of fire truck sirens cut through the quiet island air. Two fire engines and private security vehicles tore down the driveway, firemen leaping out with high-pressure hoses to battle the blaze before it could spread to the surrounding forest and the main house.
Griffin stood on the lawn, his arms wrapped securely around Sloan, Hazel, and Iris, watching the destruction of the studio.
A senior police detective walked over to Griffin, holding an object wrapped in a clear evidence bag that had been recovered near the perimeter fence.
"Mr. Drake," the detective said solemnly. "The fire was definitely arson. We found an empty industrial accelerant canister near the north fence, along with this."
The detective held up the bag. Inside was an old, faded black-and-white photograph.
Griffin stepped closer, looking at the image under the blue flashing lights of the police cruisers.
It was a photograph of Griffin’s late mother, Margaret Drake, standing beside an older man with sharp grey eyes and a stern expression. Sloan gasped softly behind him.
"Who is that?" Sloan whispered, her voice trembling.
Griffin stared at the photograph, his jaw hardening into solid rock as an old, deeply buried memory surfaced from his childhood.
"That's Charles Mercer," Griffin said, his voice dropping into a hollow, dangerous quiet. "Genevieve and Julian’s grandfather. The man who founded Mercer Holdings alongside my father thirty years ago."
The detective looked at Griffin, frowning. "Charles Mercer died five years ago, sir."
"No," Griffin whispered, looking at the back of the photograph, where a single sentence had been freshly written in red ink:
The debts of the fathers are paid by the sons. We are not finished.
May you like
Sloan held Griffin’s arm, terror returning to her eyes. "Griffin... if Julian was in the boardroom with you in Seattle... who did this?"
Griffin looked toward the dark, dense woods surrounding his property, knowing the answer deep in his soul. The war wasn't just corporate anymore. The old, hidden shadows of his family’s original sins had come out of the dark to consume everything he held dear.
