Chapter 18 - The Trap Springs
The soft click of the study window sliding open echoed faintly through the silent house. Downstairs, floorboards creaked under cautious, creeping footsteps.
I handed sleeping baby Clara over to Mrs. Patel—who had quietly moved into our guest room for security support starting that week—with a calm whisper.
“Hold her, Mrs. Patel. Lock this door behind me.”
I walked down the dark staircase, my hand gripping a heavy brass candlestick I had taken from the mantelpiece. Every step was deliberate, silent, rehearsed.
As I stepped into the doorway of the study, the moonlight cut through the window, illuminating a figure standing beside the oak desk, holding the photostat copy of the ledger page under a pocket flashlight.
“Looking for something, Sterling?” I asked smoothly, flicking the wall switch up with my free hand.
The overhead lights flooded the room in a sharp, blinding glare. Attorney Sterling Brooks spun around so fast he dropped his flashlight onto the Persian rug. His face went chalk white as he stared at me standing in the doorway, completely unmasked, holding a solid brass weapon.
“Clara... I—I can explain,” Brooks stammered, raising his hands defensively. “I was just—this was a misunderstanding—”
“You broke into a private residence at one in the morning looking for stolen assets tied to a criminal conspiracy,” I interrupted, stepping further into the room, blocking his only exit to the hallway. “That’s not a misunderstanding, Sterling. That’s felony burglary and obstruction of justice.”
Brooks’s eyes darted toward the window, calculating his chances of escape, but before he could move a muscle, heavy footsteps thundered up our front porch steps.
The front door swung open with a crash as Detective Miller and three armed deputies swarmed into the hallway, weapons drawn.
“Freeze! Federal marshal! Nobody move!” Miller shouted, pushing into the study and clamping handcuffs around Brooks’s wrists before the disgraced attorney could even utter another word of defense.
As Brooks was shoved against the bookshelves and hauled away in silver bracelets, Miller picked up the photostat ledger page from the desk and looked at me with a mixture of professional respect and sheer awe.
“You really are something else, Clara,” Miller muttered, shaking his head. “You caught a high-flying corporate attorney red-handed in your own study.”
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“I told you, Detective,” I replied, looking down at the silver burn scars visible along my arm under the bright study lights. “I never show a thief which lock still works.”
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