Chapter 6 - Shadows on the Water
The mist rising off the river hung heavy and cold, clinging to my jacket like a damp shroud as I approached the rotting wooden planks of the Magnolia Hall boathouse. The structure leaned slightly to the left, its weathered cypress siding groaning rhythmically against the gentle lapping of the dark river current. A single yellow light flickered from the small office window at the far end of the dock, cutting a weak, hazy wedge through the swirling fog.
I checked my watch: midnight. Exactly.
My hand rested instinctively on the cold steel butt of the Colt .38 tucked into my waistband. Every instinct honed over eleven years of forensic auditing screamed that I was walking into an ambush, but the alternative—letting Julian Sterling bury my family's legacy in silence—was entirely unacceptable.
I crept forward along the edge of the wooden dock, placing my feet carefully over the rusted iron bolts to avoid any telltale creaks. The damp night air smelled of rotting marsh grass, stagnant river water, and expensive French tobacco.
Expensive French tobacco. Clayton smoked cheap menthols when he was stressed, and none of the local workers could afford imported Gauloises.
I reached the weathered door of the boathouse office. It was standing ajar by three inches, a thin ribbon of pale light spilling across the splintered floorboards. From inside came the low, rhythmic hum of a portable generator and the faint scratching sound of a fountain pen scratching against heavy cardstock.
I pressed my back against the exterior wall beside the door frame, took a slow, deep breath, and kicked the door wide open with my boot, leveling the revolver ahead of me in a textbook two-handed grip.
'Hands where I can see them! Don't move an inch!'
The man sitting behind the scarred oak desk didn't flinch. He didn't drop his pen, nor did he raise his hands in surrender. Instead, he calmly laid his fountain pen across a leather-bound ledger, tipped his head back against his leather executive chair, and offered a slow, mocking smile.
He was not Julian Sterling. Or at least, not the aging tycoon I expected.
He was younger—maybe mid-forties—with sharp, aristocratic features, silver-streaked dark hair, and ice-blue eyes that mirrored the chilling gaze I had seen in family portraits of the Sterling dynasty. He wore an immaculate charcoal cashmere overcoat that looked entirely out of place in a rotting river shack.
'A Colt .38 detective special,' the man remarked smoothly, his voice rich, baritone, and utterly devoid of fear. 'Your grandfather carried the exact same piece when he threatened my father off these docks back in '72. Family traditions do die hard, don't they, Nora?'
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I kept the barrel locked dead center on his chest, my finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. 'Who the hell are you, and how do you know my name?'
He slowly raised his hands, palms open, though the smirk never left his lips. 'Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Christian Sterling. And contrary to what your imaginative husband and my late, unlamented uncle Julian made you believe... I am not your enemy. In fact, I’m the only person standing between you and the men who want to put you in an unmarked grave before sunrise.'
