"You're sure this is the one?" Richard hissed, his voice low and sharp. "The one she always carries? The one with the journal?"
"Yes, Mr. Sterling," Thorne said, his voice trembling but eager to please. "I took it from the director's office while she was coordinating the catering staff downstairs. She had no idea."
I felt a sickening drop in my chest.
Sarah hadn't kept it safe.
Or perhaps Thorne had been more cunning than we gave him credit for, using his knowledge of the estate's security bypasses to slip into her office.
"And the Carters?" Richard asked, his eyes narrowing. "Where are they?"
"They're upstairs in the private suite, sir," Thorne replied quickly. "The old man is badly hurt. He can barely walk. They think they're safe up there, waiting for the federal prosecutor to arrive."
Richard let out a low, dark chuckle that sent a shiver down my spine.
It was the same laugh I had heard years ago when he talked about crushing competitors in the market—a sound devoid of any human empathy.
"Idiots," Richard muttered, snatching the purse from Thorne's hands. "They actually thought they could stop me. Julian was a fool, and his parents are no better."
He unzipped the bag and reached inside, pulling out a thick, leather-bound book with brass clasps—Julian's journal.
My heart shattered as I saw Richard's fingers touch the pages my son had written in, the pages that held the final words of a boy who only wanted to do good in the world.
"Is the proxy ready?" Richard asked, tossing the empty purse onto a nearby armchair.
"The board is waiting in the small conference room," Thorne said. "They're ready to vote the moment you bring the signed proxy documents. Since the Carters aren't present and haven't legally protested within the designated timeframe, the liquidation will go through automatically."
"Good," Richard said, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper. "I have the forged proxy right here. Once this is signed, the sanctuary land will be sold to the developers by midnight, and the fifty million will be transferred to our offshore accounts before the sun comes up."
I couldn't stand there and watch any longer.
I pushed the heavy oak doors open, the brass hinges letting out a soft, ominous creak as I stepped into the room.
"You're missing one thing, Richard," I said, my voice echoing in the quiet library.
Both men spun around, Thorne letting out a sharp gasp and taking a step back, while Richard's eyes widened in sudden, fierce anger.
"Arthur," Richard said, recovering his composure quickly, a smug, venomous smile spreading across his lips. "Look at you. You look like you've been digging your own grave."
"We survived, Richard," I said, walking slowly into the room, my limp heavy and pronounced, each step sending a jolt of pain up my leg. "The crash didn't kill us. And your little puppet here couldn't keep us out."
I pointed a finger at Marcus Thorne, who was cowering behind a leather armchair.
Richard didn't look worried.
Instead, he slowly walked over to the roaring fireplace in the corner of the library, holding Julian's journal in one hand and his silver lighter in the other.
"You should have stayed in the ditch, Arthur," Richard said softly, his voice dripping with malice. "You're seventy-two years old. You're tired. Your son is dead, and this foundation is a ghost. Why do you keep fighting for a ghost?"
"Because that ghost is worth more than your miserable life," I growled, taking another step forward, though my knee buckled slightly.
"Bold words for a man who can barely stand," Richard sneered. "But let's look at the reality of your situation. I have the journal. I have the deed. And in five minutes, I will have the board's vote."
He flicked the lighter, the small yellow flame dancing in the dim room, reflecting in his cold, dark eyes.
"If you don't walk out of here right now, Arthur, I will drop this journal into the fire. And then, I will call the police and report that a couple of disheveled, mentally unstable vagrants broke into the estate and tried to assault me."