The deadbolt clicked open.
Leo pulled the heavy door wide. He hesitated, looking back at me with wide, terrified eyes.
“Run!” I screamed.
Leo disappeared into the dark hallway.
Before I could get back to my feet, Daniel grabbed a heavy, solid brass reading lamp from the desk. He swung it like a club, driving the heavy metal base directly into my lower ribs.
The impact was crushing. The air was violently forced from my lungs. I collapsed onto the Persian rug, clutching my side as sharp, blinding agony radiated through my torso. I couldn't breathe. I could only gasp like a drowning man.
Daniel stood over me, his chest heaving, the gun pointed down at my face.
“You stupid, arrogant fool,” Daniel spat, adjusting his suit jacket.
He didn't shoot me. The gunshot would draw too much attention from the approaching men. Instead, he grabbed my collar and hauled me backward, throwing me violently into the dark alcove beside my bound father.
Vivian was already at the door, rubbing her bleeding wrist, staring out into the hallway where Leo had vanished. “The boy is in the house, Daniel. The team is at the front door.”
“We’ll find him,” Daniel said coldly.
He stepped out of the library, grabbed the heavy iron handle, and pulled the massive oak doors shut. I heard the lock engage from the outside.
I dragged myself to the doors, my ribs screaming in protest. I pounded my fists against the thick wood, leaving smears of blood from my torn knuckles, but it was useless. The library was practically a fortress.
I pressed my ear against the heavy wood, listening as heavy boots entered the foyer.
And then, cutting through the silence of the massive estate, I heard Leo scream.
CHAPTER 3
The sound of my son’s scream echoed through the heavy oak doors and then abruptly stopped.
The silence that followed was far worse. It was thick and absolute, pressing down on my chest until the lack of oxygen made my vision swim. I pounded my bruised fists against the solid wood one last time, the impact vibrating up my arms without making a dent.
I turned my back to the door and slid down to the floor, fighting the urge to vomit from the pain in my ribs. I was trapped. The library’s massive windows were covered by exterior wrought-iron security grilles, installed decades ago to protect the rare book collection. The doors were inches thick.
I looked into the shadows of the alcove. My father was watching me.
The violent thrashing had stopped. The glazed, delirious look in his eyes was fading, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity that I hadn't seen since I was a child. The sedatives Daniel had pumped into him were finally beginning to wear off.
I pushed myself up, ignoring the sharp stab in my side, and limped over to the desk. I found a heavy, silver letter opener buried under the scattered papers. I returned to the alcove and wedged the thick metal tip into the locking mechanism of the handcuffs.
“Hold still, Dad,” I whispered, twisting the silver blade.
The cheap steel lock gave way with a sharp click. The cuffs fell open.
Harrison rubbed his bruised wrists, his hands trembling as circulation returned. He leaned forward, coughing harshly. I went to the antique bar cart in the corner, poured a glass of stale water from a crystal pitcher, and brought it back to him. He drank it greedily, the water spilling down his chin and soaking the collar of his pajamas.
When he finally looked up at me, his eyes were entirely clear. There was no madness there. Only profound, exhausted grief.
“I’m sorry, Marc,” he rasped. “I tried to warn you.”
“Dad, Vivian said you had a psychotic break,” I said, keeping my voice low. “She said you attacked her.”