Chapter 4 - The Velvet Trap Closes
At 12:15 a.m., the front door upstairs opened, and a wave of cool night air mixed with the smell of expensive bourbon drifted down. I slipped out of the basement and crept up the stairs just far enough to peer through the crack of the door leading into the hallway.
Sabrina was standing near the coat rack, laughing brightly as she handed a cashmere coat to one of her wealthy socialite friends. Her father, Irving Palmer, stood nearby, holding a half-empty glass of scotch, his face flushed with wine and triumph.
“Thank you all so much for coming!” Sabrina trilled, her voice dripping with the fake sweetness that had fooled my son for five years. “Wyatt sends his love, but he’s still recovering from that nasty flu! He’s resting upstairs.”
“Flu my foot,” chuckled a local real estate developer named Henderson. “The guy looks like a ghost every time I see him. You sure he’s not cracking under the pressure of expanding those warehouses?”
“Oh, darling, you know how sensitive Wyatt is,” Sabrina laughed smoothly, linking her arm through Irving’s. “Daddy and I are just helping him streamline his business interests so he can focus on his health. Everything is under control.”
Everything is under control.
Suddenly, the cheerful chatter from the front porch was interrupted by a low, vibrating rumble that shook the windowpanes.
Outside on the street, the sound of car engines died down, replaced by the heavy, authoritative air brakes of massive semi-trucks shifting into park.
Henderson walked over to the front window and pulled back the sheer curtain. “What the hell? Are those Heartland Freight semis? Why are they parking on a residential street?”
Another guest stepped up to the window. “There’s four of them... they’ve completely blocked both ends of Chestnut Hill. No one’s getting out.”
Irving frowned, setting his glass down on the mahogany side table. “That’s ridiculous. Heartland is a multi-million-dollar outfit. What would their trucks be doing in a suburban cul-de-sac at midnight?”
Before anyone could answer, the front door handle jiggled.
Sabrina frowned, stepping toward the entryway. “Must be late arrivals or neighbors complaining about the noise. Let me handle it.”
She pulled the door open, expecting a neighbor or a delivery.
Instead, standing on the porch under the amber porch light were two massive men in dark tactical parkas bearing no insignia, flanked by Marcus Vance in a sharp charcoal overcoat.
“Can I help you?” Sabrina snapped, her socialite facade instantly hardening into irritation. “This is a private residence. You’re trespassing.”
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Marcus didn't blink. He reached out, placed his palm flat against the center of the door, and pushed it open with enough force to send Sabrina stumbling backward into the foyer.
“Evening, Mrs. Carter,” Marcus said smoothly, stepping across the threshold. “We’re here to inspect the cargo.”
