Chapter 6 - The Siege of Whitmore House
Grant Mercer was dragged to his feet by the marshals. His tailored suit was ruined, his hair wild, his eyes bloodshot with terror. The reality of his complete collapse had finally broken through his arrogance.
He looked at the iron box sitting open on the floor—the evidence that would strip his family of every asset they owned, dissolve their firm, and send him and his father to federal penitentiary for arson, conspiracy, and fraud for the rest of their natural lives.
"Clara..." Grant wept, his voice cracking into pitiful sob as the marshals pulled his arms behind his back to apply steel handcuffs. "Clara, please... look at me! We were going to get married! We chose the maple tree together!"
Clara walked slowly toward him. She stopped three feet away, staring into the face of the man she had loved, searching for any remnant of the person she thought she knew. She found none. Beneath the handsome exterior was only an empty, greedy shell.
"You stood over Pip while he was screaming, Grant," Clara said, her voice dropping to a low, fierce whisper that froze the blood in his veins. "You had a lighter in your hand. You looked me in the eye and lied while my dog was bleeding on the floor."
"I was scared!" Grant cried out, tears streaming down his face. "My father threatened to disown me! I had no choice! Please, Clara... call off Vance! Tell the AG you found the documents by accident! Tell them I had nothing to do with it! I’ll give you the house! I’ll give you everything!"
Salvatore walked up behind Clara, resting his hand on his silver-tipped cane. He looked down at Grant like a man looking at a crushed insect on his porch.
"I told your lawyer at the clinic what would happen tonight, Grant," Salvatore murmured softly. "I told him that before the clock struck midnight, you would beg."
Grant dropped to his knees right there on the wet hardwood of the foyer, his handcuffed hands pulling at Clara’s skirt.
"Please, Clara!" he begged, his forehead pressing against her shoe, blubbering like a terrified child. "Please! I’m begging you! Don't ruin my life! I’ll do anything! Anything you want! Just save me!"
Clara looked down at her fiancé kneeling in the dirt and plaster dust, sobbing at her feet. She remembered the handprint on the third stair—her grandmother’s hand, holding on, keeping the truth safe for four decades so that justice could finally be served.
She pulled her skirt back from his grasp.
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"Take him away," Clara said to the marshals.
The marshals lifted Grant by his arms and dragged him backward out the front door, his hysterical screams for mercy fading into the roaring storm outside until the dark finally swallowed him whole.
