I turned around to face my sister.
Vivian had backed away, pressing herself against the edge of the mahogany desk. She wasn't looking at me with apology or shame. She was looking at me with the cold, calculating panic of a cornered animal.
Daniel stood by the heavy oak library doors. He didn't look like an estate lawyer anymore. He reached inside his tailored suit jacket and pulled out a heavy, black handgun.
He didn't point it at me. Not yet. Instead, he used his free hand to pull the massive library doors shut, the heavy brass deadbolt clicking loudly into place.
“I really wish you had just stayed in California, Marcus,” Daniel said softly.
CHAPTER 2
The heavy click of the deadbolt echoed through the library like a gunshot.
The sound severed my connection to the outside world. I was locked in a soundproof room with my traumatized son, a father I thought was thousands of miles away, a sister who had lied to my face, and a man holding a weapon.
“Get behind me, Leo,” I whispered, keeping my eyes locked on the barrel of Daniel’s gun.
Leo scrambled backward, his small hands clutching the back of my shirt. I could feel him trembling against my spine.
“Daniel, put that down,” I said, forcing my voice to remain low and steady. “You don’t want to do this. Whatever is happening here, pulling a weapon changes everything.”
“It’s already changed, Marcus,” Daniel replied. He kept the gun angled toward the floor, but his grip was rigid. “You weren't supposed to find him. You were supposed to sign the executor waivers and go back to your miserable life.”
I turned my head slightly toward Vivian. She was gripping the edge of the desk so hard her fingernails were bending.
“Vivian, what is this?” I demanded. “You told me he was in Switzerland. You let me mourn him.”
Vivian swallowed hard, her eyes darting between me and the dark alcove where our father sat bound to the chair. “We didn't have a choice, Marc. You don't understand how bad it got.” She took a hesitant step forward, her voice taking on that familiar, persuasive tone she used to manipulate situations when we were kids. “He had a psychotic break. A total collapse. He came at me with a carving knife in the kitchen last week. He didn't know who I was. He thought I was an intruder trying to steal the silver.”
I stared at her, disgusted. “So you handcuffed him inside a wall?”
“We couldn't get him on a commercial medical flight!” Vivian pleaded, her voice rising in pitch. “He was too violent. The doctors wouldn't take him. The private transport team is coming tonight. They have the proper sedatives. We hid him in here so Leo wouldn't be traumatized by seeing his grandfather in a straitjacket.”
It was a brilliant, terrifyingly plausible lie. If I hadn't known Vivian’s capacity for deception, I might have believed it.
I looked past her, into the shadows of the alcove. My father was shaking his head frantically side to side. The duct tape pulled painfully at the skin of his cheeks. He was making muffled, desperate noises in the back of his throat.
“I’m taking him out of that chair,” I said.
“Don't touch him, Marcus,” Daniel warned, finally raising the gun to point at my chest. “He’s dangerous. He doesn't know you. If you take that tape off, he’ll bite your fingers off.”
“If you’re going to shoot me, Daniel, do it in front of my son,” I challenged, my adrenaline turning into a cold, focused anger. “Otherwise, get out of my way.”
Daniel hesitated. He was a lawyer, a man accustomed to white-collar intimidation, not wet-work. That hesitation was all the permission I needed.
I stepped into the alcove. The smell of ammonia and fear was overwhelming. I knelt beside my father. His wrists were bruised purple where the steel cuffs had cut into his skin.
“It’s okay, Dad. It’s Marcus. I’ve got you,” I whispered.
I found the edge of the thick silver tape and pulled it away as gently as I could.
My father gasped for air, his chest heaving violently. His lips were cracked and bleeding. He looked at me with wild, unfocused eyes. The lack of water and whatever drugs they had forced into his system made his head loll to the side.
“The wolves,” he croaked, his voice raw and gravelly. “The wolves are in the house, Marc.”