Chapter 7 - A Deadly Christmas Eve
The drive north on Route 8 was a nightmare of blinding whiteout conditions.
Snow lashed against my windshield in violent, howling gusts. The highway was virtually deserted, covered in an unbroken sheet of black ice and drifting powder. My hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel, my tires sliding every time I hit a curve.
I had tried calling Sarah six times. Every call went straight to voicemail. The mountainous terrain around Litchfield was notorious for spotty cell service, especially during winter storms.
By the time I reached the winding, unpaved gravel road leading up to the cabin, the snow was nearly six inches deep. Tree branches hung low, heavy with ice, scraping against the roof of my SUV like skeletal fingers.
As I rounded the final turn, my headlights caught something that made my blood run cold.
A black sedan was parked sideways across the driveway, its lights off, snow already piling up on its hood.
And further up the drive, the front door of my sister’s cabin stood wide open.
Yellow light spilled out from the doorway onto the pristine white snow, illuminating dark, fresh footprints leading into the house.
I slammed the car into park, grabbed a heavy steel tire iron from behind the passenger seat, and leaped out into the freezing wind.
“Emma!” I screamed into the storm, but the wind swallowed my voice instantly.
I ran toward the porch, my boots sinking into the drifts. The air smelled of woodsmoke, pine, and something metallic—like spent gunpowder.
I reached the threshold and stepped inside.
The living room was in shambles. A dining chair was splintered on the floor. A tray of half-decorated gingerbread cookies lay smashed across the rug.
“Sarah?!” I called out, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I could barely breathe.
“Claire…”
The weak voice came from the hallway leading to the bedrooms.
I rushed forward. My sister Sarah was slumped against the wall, clutching her arm. Blood seeped through the sleeve of her wool sweater, but she was conscious.
“Sarah! Oh God, what happened?”
“Two men…” she whispered, coughing through the pain. “They kicked the door in. One had a gun. I hit him with the cast-iron skillet, but he shot… he winged my shoulder. Claire… Trevor showed up.”
I stared at her in shock. “Trevor?”
“He followed them from Greenwich,” Sarah breathed, pointing toward the back sunroom that opened onto the frozen lake. “He tackled the guy with the gun out the back door. Emma ran to the pantry. She’s locked inside the pantry!”
“Mommy?!”
A tiny, muffled voice came from the kitchen pantry.
I ran to the latch, throwing the door open. Emma was curled up behind the flour bins, clutching her small teddy bear to her chest.
“Emma! Baby!” I pulled her into my arms, sobbing uncontrollably, burying my face in her hair. She was shaking, but she was untouched.
“Daddy fought the bad man, Mommy,” Emma cried softly into my neck. “Daddy said to stay hidden.”
A loud, hollow crack—the unmistakable sound of a gunshot—echoed across the frozen lake behind the cabin.
I stood up instantly. I handed Emma to Sarah.
“Lock this door behind me,” I commanded Sarah, my voice dropping into a tone she had never heard from me before. “Call 911 again. If anyone other than Marcus Vance knocks on this door, don't open it.”
“Claire, don’t go out there!” Sarah pleaded.
I didn't answer. I tightened my grip on the steel tire iron, turned, and pushed through the shattered French doors of the sunroom out into the howling blizzard.
The snow was falling so thickly that visibility was down to ten yards. Ahead of me lay Lake Waramaug, completely frozen over, a vast, flat expanse of white framed by the black silhouettes of pine trees.
Through the veil of snow, I saw three figures near the old wooden dock.
One man lay motionless in the snow, a dark pool spreading around his head. A second man was running toward the woods, disappearing into the whiteout.
And kneeling near the edge of the ice was Trevor.
Standing over him, draped in a full-length black fur coat, holding an ivory-handled revolver, was Victoria.
She hadn’t hired men to do the job alone. She had come to watch.
The blizzard whipped her gray hair around her face like a crown of snakes. Her ankle monitor had been cut off—I could see the jagged plastic strap lying in the snow a few feet away.
“You’re pathetic, Trevor,” Victoria’s voice cut through the wind, cold and shrill. “You were always weak. Just like the man who sired you. You couldn’t even protect your own family’s name.”
Trevor was on his knees, clutching his abdomen. Blood was dark and heavy against his light gray coat, soaking into the snow beneath him. He had taken a bullet to the stomach.
“You… you killed my boys,” Trevor wheezed, looking up at her with eyes filled with tears and agony. “You murdered them.”
“They were Claire’s boys!” Victoria shrieked, the mask of high-society elegance completely shredded, leaving behind the raw, raving madness of a narcissist whose kingdom had crumbled. “They had her blood! She was taking you away! She was taking everything I built! I gave you a life! I gave you an empire! And you betrayed me for a middle-class nobody!”
She raised the revolver, leveling the barrel directly between Trevor’s eyes.
“Victoria!” I screamed.
Victoria spun around, the heavy fur coat flaring in the wind. When she saw me standing there with the tire iron in my hand, a horrific, triumphant smile spread across her lips.
May you like
“Claire,” she purred, her eyes wide and manic. “How thoughtful of you to join us. Now I don’t have to waste time searching the house.”
***
