Chapter 2 - The Lakeside Key
The interrogation in the Hawthorne library was brief and brutal for Victoria, though she refused to answer questions without counsel present. By 9:30 PM, she had been escorted out of the mansion in handcuffs, her designer heels clicking indignantly against the stone steps as flashbulbs from local reporters—tipped off by neighbors who saw the flurry of police cruisers—illuminated the dark driveway.
Inside, paramedics finished examining Eleanor, wrapping her in a thermal blanket and administering warm electrolytes. The eighty-two-year-old matriarch was exhausted, her spirit bruised, but her mind was sharper than anyone realized.
""She locked me in that room three days ago, sweet girl,"" Eleanor whispered, leaning her head against Charlotte’s shoulder as they sat by the roaring stone fireplace. ""After your father confronted her about the missing funds from the historical preservation trust... he simply vanished. Victoria told the staff he had flown to Zurich on an emergency merger. But he never packed his bags.""
Charlotte gently stroked her grandmother's white hair, her thumb brushing over the small brass key hidden in her pocket—the key to the old lakeside cabin tucked deep within the private woodlands at the edge of the property.
""Get some rest, Grandma,"" Charlotte murmured softly. ""I'm going to find him.""
""Be careful, Charlotte,"" Eleanor warned, her cold, bony fingers gripping her granddaughter's wrist with surprising strength. ""Victoria wasn't acting alone. She had help from someone inside the financial district. Someone who knew how to forge your father’s signature down to the microscopic pressure lines.""
An hour later, Charlotte stood alone in the dark garage. She bypassed her father's luxury sedans and climbed into the driver's seat of her own rugged military-issue Ford pickup truck—the vehicle she had driven cross-country after landing at the airbase. She jammed the key into the ignition, threw it into four-wheel drive, and headed down the overgrown gravel trail leading toward the lake.
The pine trees closed in overhead, blocking out the moonlight. The old family cabin sat three miles deep into the wooded acreage, far from the main house, accessible only by a single private road equipped with motion-activated cameras.
Except tonight, the cameras were dead. Someone had clipped the power lines at the base of the utility pole fifty yards down the trail.
Charlotte switched off her headlights, relying entirely on her military-grade night-vision monocular as she crept the truck forward without a sound. She parked behind a dense thicket of rhododendron bushes, killed the engine, and stepped out into the damp night air. Her combat boots made no sound against the pine needles.
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As she approached the weathered cedar cabin, a faint amber glow flickered through the dust-covered windows.
Someone was inside.
