Chapter 8 - The Old Boathouse
The drive to Connecticut was tense and agonizingly long. The sky had darkened, heavy grey clouds rolling in from the Atlantic, matching the grim mood inside the car. They arrived at the dilapidated marina just as a cold drizzle began to fall. The place looked abandoned, a graveyard of rusting hulls and rotting wooden docks. They found the boathouse at the very edge of the property, a sagging structure barely clinging to the shoreline. Miller drew his weapon, motioning for Sarah to keep Leo back behind the car.
Miller approached the door silently. He pushed it open; it creaked loudly on rusted hinges. "Penhaligon!" Miller shouted into the gloom. "I'm NYPD. I have your son!" For a long, terrifying moment, there was no answer. Then, a weak, ragged voice called out from the back corner. "Leo?" Sarah couldn't hold him back. Leo broke free from her grasp and ran into the dark boathouse. "Dad!" he cried out.
In the corner, sitting on a pile of old canvas sails, was Arthur Penhaligon. He looked nothing like a corporate CFO. He was pale, sweating profusely, and clutching a bloody towel to his side. He had been shot. Leo threw his arms around his father's neck, sobbing uncontrollably. Arthur winced but hugged his boy back with desperate strength. "I'm sorry, Leo," Arthur whispered, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on his face. "I'm so sorry I put you through this." Miller and Sarah rushed in. Miller immediately began examining the wound. "It's a through-and-through, but you've lost a lot of blood," Miller assessed grimly. Arthur looked at the detective, then weakly pointed to a loose floorboard beneath him. "Under there. The ledger. The hard drive. Everything. It proves Vance stole millions from the workers' pensions. The cash... the cash was just to get your attention."
