I looked at Thorne, who was standing near the door under the watchful eye of one of Sarah's trusted security guards.
"Tell him yes," I commanded Thorne. "Tell him the old couple is taken care of, and they won't be showing up tonight."
Thorne's fingers shook as he typed the message and hit send.
A moment later, a reply came back: *Good. The vote is in ten minutes. Meet me in the library to get your payment.*
My heart leaped.
The library was a secluded room on the second floor, away from the main ballroom.
"This is our chance," I said, looking at Eleanor. "We can trap him."
"No, Arthur, you're in no condition to fight him," Eleanor protested, her eyes dark with fear. "He ran us off the road. He is capable of anything."
"I am not going to fight him with my fists, Ellie," I said, reaching out to take her cold hand. "I am going to let him think he has won. I'm going to let him show his true face."
I turned to Sarah. "Take Eleanor's purse. Keep the journal and the deed safe. Do not let them out of your sight. If anything happens to me, you go straight to Prosecutor Cole."
Sarah took the worn leather bag, her expression solemn. "I promise, Mr. Carter."
"Arthur, please," Eleanor whispered, her eyes pleading.
"I have to do this, Ellie. For Julian."
I stood up, ignoring the agonizing protest of my knee, and smoothed down my ruined, mud-stained shirt.
I didn't change into the clean suit Sarah had brought.
I wanted Richard to see the mud.
I wanted him to see the blood.
I walked out of the suite, down the quiet service stairs, and headed toward the library on the second floor, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
But as I reached the heavy oak doors of the library, I realized I had made a terrible mistake.
Through the crack in the door, I didn't just see Richard Sterling.
I saw Marcus Thorne standing next to him, and in Thorne's hand was a familiar, worn leather purse.
My breath caught in my throat.
The purse Sarah was carrying was a decoy—or had Thorne somehow stolen the real one right from under our noses?
The realization hit me like a physical blow to the stomach, knocking the remaining breath from my lungs.
I leaned against the cold wallpaper of the corridor, my mind racing as I stared through the narrow gap in the heavy oak doors.
Inside the dimly lit, book-lined library, Richard Sterling was pacing back and forth on the expensive Persian rug.
He looked immaculate—not a hair out of place, his tuxedo pristine, his green-faced watch gleaming under the soft library lamps.
But his face was flushed, his eyes bright with a manic, desperate energy.
Marcus Thorne stood before him, holding Eleanor's battered leather purse by its worn straps.