Chapter 3 - Midnight Confessions
Rory didn't ring the doorbell.
He killed the engine, stepped out into the pouring rain, and walked directly to the side service entrance. He pulled a heavy titanium lockpick set from his coat pocket. In less than eight seconds, the heavy deadbolt clicked open with a sharp, mechanical snap.
He held the door open for Veronica, gesturing with a single nod for her to stay close with the girls, who were still wrapped in thick wool blankets.
The interior of the Thompson estate smelled of expensive eucalyptus candles, wet marble, and faint, stale cigarette smoke.
Rory moved through the ground floor like a phantom. His footsteps made no sound on the polished white limestone flooring. He bypassed the living room, the sprawling kitchen, and the indoor pool, heading straight for the back staircase that led to the private executive study.
As they neared the top of the stairs, a muffled voice drifted out from beneath the double oak doors of the study.
“…I’m telling you, Arthur, the girls are cracking,” a woman’s voice snapped, laced with a sharp, jittery edge of panic. “Three weeks of unbroken terror, and Rory still hasn't figured it out. He thinks they’re developing a psychological disorder. He’s ready to check them into a psychiatric facility in Zurich!”
Arthur’s voice ranted in response, lower, rougher. “And if he does? The trust portfolio automatically transfers to the collateral executors until the children reach majority age. Without Rory around to contest the corporate restructuring, our stake in the shipping docks goes from fifteen percent to controlling majority. It’s brilliant, Susan. But you need to stop calling me on an unsecured line. If Rory finds out—even a hint—he won't just kill us. He’ll feed us to the harbour crabs.”
Outside the door, Rory Starks stopped walking.
His face didn't twitch. His breathing didn't accelerate. He simply reached out, wrapped his massive hand around the heavy brass doorknob, and pushed.
The oak doors flew inward, slamming against the interior walls with a deafening crash that echoed through the entire mansion.
Susan Thompson jumped up from the mahogany desk so fast her leather chair tipped backward, crashing onto the hardwood floor. Arthur Thompson, sitting across from her with a glass of scotch in his hand, froze mid-motion, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass.
For three seconds, the only sound in the room was the heavy patter of rain against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
Susan’s face drained of every drop of color. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“R-Rory,” she stammered, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of the desk. “What... what are you doing here? At this hour?”
Rory stepped into the study. He didn't look like a grieving brother-in-law or a concerned uncle. He looked like an executioner who had finally found the address.
He walked slowly across the Persian rug, his wet boots leaving dark footprints on the wool. He reached the desk, pulled the shattered remains of the teddy bear from his coat pocket, and dropped them directly onto the stack of financial trust documents lying before Susan.
The plastic circuit board and blinking red wires clattered against the papers.
Susan stared at the debris, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with animal terror.
“Do you like the craftsmanship, Susan?” Rory asked, his voice deathly soft, cutting through the room like a razor blade. “Made in Belgium, right? Special order. Just for your favorite nieces.”
“Rory, listen to me,” Susan choked out, stumbling backward until her spine hit the bookshelf. “It’s... it’s a joke. A prank! Arthur and I were just—we were experimenting with acoustic—!”
Arthur stood up quickly, his hands raised defensively. “Now hold on, Rory! Let’s be reasonable here. We’re family! We can talk about the stock allocation, we can negotiate the shipping percentages—!”
Rory didn't let him finish.
In a blur of motion, Rory closed the distance, grabbed Arthur by the lapels of his silk robe, and slammed him backward against the glass windowpane. The heavy glass cracked in a spiderweb pattern, rattling violently under the impact.
“You targeted my daughters,” Rory whispered, his face inches from Arthur’s wide, sweating eyes. “You put a machine in their bedroom to make them believe monsters were eating their minds. You made them claw at their own ears.”
“Rory, please!” Susan screamed, dropping to her knees and grabbing the hem of his coat. “Don't kill him! Please! It was my idea! I did it for the money! The debts were piling up, Arthur lost everything at the tables in Atlantic City—!”
Rory looked down at her. His expression was so utterly empty, so terrifyingly cold, that it made the blood freeze in Veronica’s veins.
He didn't shout. He didn't throw punches.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone, and dialed a two-digit speed dial.
“Vincent,” Rory said into the speaker.
“Boss?” a gravelly voice responded instantly on the other end.
“Bring the flatbed and two cleaners to 442 Ocean Drive. Pack up everything in the basement vaults, liquidate the accounts, and transfer every cent of the Thompson estate into a new trust fund under the legal name of Veronica Cruz.”
Susan gasped, her eyes bulging. “No! You can’t do that! That’s our entire livelihood! That’s everything we own!”
“You own nothing,” Rory said calmly, hanging up the phone and tossing it onto the desk. He looked back at Arthur, who was still pinned against the cracked window, gasping for air.
“By sunrise,” Rory continued, his voice dropping into a dark, final cadence, “you and your wife are going to be on a cargo freighter bound for a non-extradition port in South America. If either of you ever sets foot on North American soil again—if you even breathe the same air as my daughters—I won’t use a bullet. I’ll dismantle you piece by piece, exactly like you tried to dismantle my family.”
May you like
He turned away, disgusted, and walked back toward the doorway where Veronica stood with the sleeping twins.
“Let’s go home, Veronica,” Rory said softly.
