Chapter 4
Garran swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing violently against his tight tuxedo collar. "I don't know what you're talking about. The maintenance crew handles the doors."
"The maintenance crew doesn't use tactical adhesive tape," Truett said.
Without another word, Truett stepped back half a pace and drove his heel against the lock mechanism with the explosive force of a battering ram. The solid oak frame splintered with a deafening crack, and the double doors swung inward, rebounding off the interior walls.
The room was illuminated only by the cold, flickering blue glow of a bank of thirty surveillance monitors.
At the main console, the estate's chief of security sat slumped forward in his rolling chair. His arms hung limply toward the floor, and a puddle of dark, viscous fluid was slowly dripping from the back of his skull onto the rubber cable mats below.
Isolde let out a stifled, strangled scream, clapping both hands over her mouth. Arthur Vance leaned against the splintered doorframe, his cane slipping from his fingers and clattering against the baseboard.
"Oh God..." Garran whispered, backing out into the hallway. "Oh sweet Jesus..."
Truett did not flinch. He stepped inside the room, his eyes scanning the corners, the ceiling vents, and the dead space behind the server racks. He drew two fingers across the dead man’s carotid artery.
"Still warm," Truett said calmly. "Blunt force trauma. Five minutes ago. While you were making your little speech in the ballroom, Garran."
Truett stepped around the chair and looked at the main control console. The master digital video recorder was still running, its green lights flashing in steady synchronization. On the central monitor, labeled BRIDAL SUITE - CAM 04, the playback was paused.
Truett reached over the bloody desk and pressed the spacebar.
The video sprang to life.
The time stamp in the lower corner read 7:38 PM—less than thirty minutes prior.
The high-definition camera showed the opulent interior of the bridal suite. Isolde stood near the vanity mirror, her bridal dress already arranged, her veil pinned. But she was not adjusting her makeup. She was kneeling on the carpet, directly in front of three-year-old Elsbeth.
The silence in the security room was absolute as the footage rolled.
On the screen, Isolde smiled sweetly at the child, stroking Elsbeth’s hair with her left hand while her right hand reached into the hidden seam of her bridal gown. She pulled out the heavy diamond bracelet. Isolde leaned in close, whispering something directly into Elsbeth’s ear, then carefully slid the platinum cuff into the satin basket, covering it beneath a thick layer of silk rose petals.
Isolde kissed the child’s cheek, handed her the basket, and patted her shoulder as Elsbeth walked innocently toward the doorway.
Truett paused the frame. Isolde’s face on the screen was frozen in a cold, calculating smirk as she watched the child leave the room.
Truett turned around slowly to face the real Isolde standing in the doorway.
"The bride told me to carry it," Truett quoted, his voice dangerously soft. "That’s what she said, wasn't it? You told a three-year-old it was a secret game for her grandfather. You wanted her to hold it until Garran made his scene."
Isolde’s face was completely drained of color, but the panic in her eyes had begun to harden into something feral and cornered.
"You don't understand what’s happening here, Truett," she whispered, her voice trembling with venom. "You think you're the only predator in this city? We didn't have a choice!"
"There is always a choice," Truett said. "You chose to use my blood as a shield."
"Because you were the only one who could get it out!" Garran screamed from the corridor, his composure shattering entirely. "The estate is surrounded! Don't you see? They've been watching the gates since three o'clock! If Julian walked out with that drive, they would have butchered him in his car! But nobody searches Truett Hawthorne’s limousine!"
Truett stepped out of the security room, closing the distance between himself and Garran until the younger man was pinned against the wainscoting.
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"Who is watching the gates, Garran?" Truett demanded, his voice dropping into a register that shook the brass sconces on the wall. "Who did you steal from?"
Before Garran could answer, a single, muffled gunshot echoed from the far end of the east wing library.
