Chapter 6 - The Spider’s Web
Naomi did not raise her hands. She stood motionless in the center of Evelyn’s sitting room, the sling bag hanging heavy across her torso, containing the evidence that could send the woman holding the gun to prison for the rest of her life.
"You're not going to shoot me, Celeste," Naomi said, her tone conversational, almost bored. "The sound of a unsuppressed .380 round in an enclosed stone room will echo down the east wing and wake the groundskeepers. Adrian is at the front gate. You can't explain a dead housekeeper with a bullet wound in the back of her head."
"Oh, you sweet, stupid domestic," Celeste sneered, taking half a step closer. The gun remained steady. "You think I’m going to shoot you in the back? You’re a burglar. You broke into this house after being formally dismissed and issued a criminal trespass warning by Adrian himself. You came to eliminate the evidence of your poisoning. You attacked me—again—and in the struggle for my personal defense firearm, you were fatally shot in the chest."
Celeste tilted her head, her eyes glittering with manic triumph.
"Adrian will be devastated by the violence in his home," Celeste continued, her voice dropping into a breathless purr. "He’ll lean on me even more. And tomorrow morning, Dr. Voss will quietly adjust Evelyn’s IV drip at Greenwich Hospital to induce an irreversible cardiac arrest. Two days from now, I will be the sole comfort of a grieving, orphaned billionaire."
"You forgot one thing," Naomi said.
Celeste’s eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't forget things."
"You forgot that I didn't come alone."
A sudden, sharp beam of blinding white light slashed through the floor-to-ceiling balcony windows behind Celeste.
A high-powered LED tactical spotlight, mounted on the roof of the garden pavilion eighty yards away, illuminated the room with the brilliance of an operating theater. Celeste flinched, instinctively squinting and shielding her eyes with her left hand, the gun wavering for a fraction of a second.
*Crack!*
The balcony glass shattered into a thousand spiderweb fractures as a non-lethal compressed gas projectile—fired from Marcus Thorne’s tactical sniper rig on the carriage house perimeter—struck the frame of the window.
Naomi didn't hesitate.
She didn't run away; she drove forward.
With the explosive, precise power of a woman who had spent thirty years performing heavy physical labor, Naomi stepped inside Celeste’s guard. She hooked her left forearm under Celeste’s right wrist, forcing the muzzle of the pistol toward the ceiling, and slammed the heel of her right palm directly into Celeste’s nose.
Cartilage crunched under the impact.
Celeste let out an agonizing, guttural shriek as blood exploded across her lips. The gun fired—a deafening *bang* that tore a hole through the antique plaster molding of the ceiling—before flying out of her shattered grip and skittering across the hardwood floor.
Celeste stumbled backward, clutching her bleeding face, screaming in blind fury. "You black bitch! I’ll kill you! I’ll tear your throat out!"
Naomi didn't strike her again. She picked up the nickel-plated pistol, popped the magazine out with her thumb, racked the slide to eject the live round from the chamber, and let both pieces drop into the sling bag beside Evelyn’s diary.
"You have no manners, Celeste," Naomi said, stepping over the shattered glass. "Evelyn Vale spent forty years teaching this family how to conduct themselves. You aren't fit to wipe her silver."
Heavy, frantic footsteps thundered down the hallway.
The double doors of the suite were thrown open with violent force.
Adrian Vale stood in the doorway, his tie undone, his trench coat soaked with rain, his face wild with panic. Behind him were two armed Ironclad private security guards with drawn tasers.
Adrian froze.
The scene before him was absolute carnage: the ceiling had a smoking bullet hole; the balcony window was fractured; blood was dripping through Celeste’s manicured fingers as she writhed on the floor; and Naomi Carter stood under the crystal chandelier, holding a bag of evidence, her cardigan unbuttoned, looking as unbothered as if she were inspecting the evening dusting.
"Adrian!" Celeste shrieked, crawling toward him on her knees, leaving smeared streaks of crimson on the Persian rug. "She broke in! She tried to shoot me! Look at what she did to my face! She has a gun in that bag!"
Adrian’s eyes moved from Celeste’s bloody face to the bullet hole in the ceiling, and finally to Naomi. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves.
"Naomi," Adrian whispered, his voice cracking with an unbearable, suffocating despair. "What have you done?"
"I didn't break in, Mr. Vale," Naomi said, her voice cutting through the hysteria like an executioner’s blade. "I came back to fetch your mother’s truth."
Naomi unzipped the sling bag. She reached inside, pulled out Evelyn’s blue leather journal, and tossed it onto the mahogany table between them with a heavy, hollow thud. Beside it, she placed two of the Mason jars containing the dark, amber sediment of Evelyn’s poisoned tea.
May you like
"Call your personal attorney, Arthur Vance," Naomi said, pointing at the book. "And tell him to bring the signature cards for the JP Morgan trust. Because your mother isn't demented, Adrian. She was being murdered in her bed so this woman could steal your father’s name."
***
