Chapter 3 - The Ghost at the Gala
The Mercer summer estate—known locally as Raven’s Ridge—loomed against the stormy coastal horizon like a gothic fortress. Perched dramatically on a jagged cliff overlooking the crashing Atlantic waves, the sprawling stone mansion was currently ablaze with warm, golden light. Tonight was supposed to be Garrett’s triumphant return as the sole master of the Baltimore shipyard, a private celebration shared with his closest co-conspirators and my treasonous half-sister, Penelope.
Hidden deep in the dense pine woods surrounding the estate, Tobias and I parked a stolen utility vehicle we had acquired near the docks. I stared at my reflection in the truck’s rearview mirror. My hair was damp and tangled, my skin pale from the poison lingering in my bloodstream, but my eyes burned with a fire that no amount of chemical tampering could extinguish.
“Remember,” Tobias whispered, checking the slide of a heavy tactical pistol he had retrieved from a hidden stash in the truck bed. “We don't rush in guns blazing. We dismantle them from the inside out.”
“I don't want to just ruin them, Tobias,” I replied, my voice chillingly calm. “I want Garrett to look me in the eye and realize that the dead don't stay buried.”
We bypassed the perimeter security sensors—systems Tobias had mapped out years ago—and slipped through a French door leading into the mansion’s cavernous grand ballroom.
The party was in full swing. Soft jazz drifted through the crystal-chandeliered room, where dozens of wealthy investors, corrupt politicians, and shipyard executives mingled, sipping champagne and offering glowing congratulations to the host of the evening.
Standing on the raised dais at the front of the room was Garrett. He had changed into an immaculate velvet tuxedo, raising a glass of expensive vintage wine as he addressed the crowd. Beside him stood Penelope, her pregnant belly proudly displayed in a emerald silk gown, smiling smugly as she accepted praises from the adoring sycophants.
“...and so, as we look toward a prosperous new chapter for the Baltimore shipping lanes,” Garrett was saying, his smooth, practiced voice carrying across the ballroom, “we honor the memory of my late, beloved wife, Rosalind. Her tragic passing in today’s unfortunate coastal accident is a heavy cross to bear, but her legacy will live on through the modernization projects we—”
“That’s an impressive eulogy for a man who forgot to check the back seat,” a clear, ringing voice cut through the ballroom acoustics.
The music ground to a screeching halt. Every conversation died instantly. Three dozen heads whipped around toward the grand double doors.
There I stood, flanked by Tobias, who walked with a firm, unbroken stride that commanded the room’s immediate terror.
Garrett’s wineglass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the parquet floor in an explosion of red liquid that looked uncannily like blood. His face drained of all color, his mouth hanging open as he stared at me as if I were a specter risen from the ocean floor.
Penelope let out a shrill, breathless scream, clutching her pregnant belly and stumbling backward into a velvet-draped pillar.
“R-Rosalind…?” Garrett stammered, taking a jerky step backward off the dais. “No… that’s impossible. You were locked in the car… I watched it sink!”
“You watched a decoy sink, Garrett,” I said, walking slowly down the center aisle as the wealthy guests parted around us in sheer terror, realizing they had accidentally attended a crime scene. “You were so eager to inherit my empire that you didn't even bother to verify your work.”
Garrett shook his head frantically, his eyes darting toward the exits where his private security guards were stationed. “You’re hallucinating! You’re dead! Get away from me!”
“And look who else decided to rise from the dead,” Tobias added loudly, stepping forward and clapping his hands together. “Miracles do happen in this family, don't they, Garrett? Just ask my legs.”
The gasps in the room multiplied tenfold. The prominent executives and politicians who had patronized Tobias for fifteen years as a wheelchair-bound invalid watched in utter bewilderment as he stood tall, towering over the terrified guests with absolute authority.
Garrett backed up until he hit the mahogany podium, cornered like a rat in a trap. “This is a setup! Security! Arrest them!”
None of the guards moved. In fact, two of Garrett’s head security contractors—men Tobias had quietly contacted and bought off using evidence of the Mercer family’s offshore embezzlement—stepped away from the doors and crossed their arms.
“The party’s over, Garrett,” I said, stopping just five feet away from the dais. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a heavy glass vial containing the cloudy, vanilla-scented milk I had scooped from our refrigerator before we left the estate. I placed it squarely on the podium, right in front of his shaking hands.
May you like
“Recognize this?” I asked softly. “You made it for me with such loving care every single night. Only problem is, my blood work at the hospital tonight confirmed it’s packed with slow-acting thallium.”
The color vanished entirely from Garrett’s face. He knew the game was up.
