Chapter 10 - The Fall of the House of Dennis
The study was so quiet you could hear the rhythmic ticking of the antique mantel clock on the marble fireplace.
Downstairs, the sound of car doors slamming and tires squealing on gravel signaled the chaotic exodus of three hundred wealthy guests.
The German investors were already sprinting toward their limousines, tearing up their legal credentials as they fled the impending scandal.
Reagan clutched the diamond pendant at her throat, her chest heaving violently beneath her green silk dress.
“This is a nightmare... you’re a ghost... Carter! Where is Carter?!”
“Carter is downstairs trying to explain to thirty Vanguard guards why their checks just bounced,” I said, stepping between Reagan and the door.
“Because five minutes ago, Harold Hayes froze every account tied to Apex Maritime through an emergency federal injunction.”
Reagan spun toward Dr. Bradley Vance, her polished veneer peeling away to reveal naked, hysterical panic.
“Bradley! You told me he was dead!”
“You told me you watched the cremation papers yourself!”
“He was dying, Reagan!” Vance shrieked, cowering against the bookshelves.
“He had no pulse when we loaded him into the medical transport!”
“He faked his own cardiac arrest using atropine drops he stole from my medical bag!”
“He played us! He played both of us from the very beginning!”
Heavy, frantic footsteps sprinted up the stairs, and Carter Vance burst into the study with a heavy black tactical bag slung over his shoulder.
His tie was torn open, his hair was wild with sweat, and in his right hand he held an automatic pistol.
“Mom, the network is compromised! The feds are pinging our IP addresses! We have to take the back road to the—”
Carter stopped in mid-sentence.
His eyes locked onto me, then moved slowly to Camden Dennis.
The automatic pistol in his hand dropped two inches as his brain failed to process the sight of the man he thought he had murdered twelve months ago.
“Camden...” Carter whispered, his cocky smirk vanishing into a grotesque grimace of terror.
“Put the gun down, Carter,” Camden said, his voice entirely devoid of fear.
“You were always a mediocre thief.”
“You couldn't even run a legitimate shipping firm without losing two million dollars in six months to high-stakes poker games in Atlantic City.”
Carter’s eyes darted toward his mother, then toward the red binders on the conference table.
“You... you took the red ledger from my office?”
“I took everything, Carter,” Camden replied.
“I took the ledger, I took the bank routing receipts, and I took the digital trail showing that you mortgaged this house to a European syndicate behind your mother's back.”
Reagan’s head snapped toward her son, her eyes wide with shock.
“What did he say?” Reagan demanded, her voice rising to a shrill shriek.
“Carter, what did he say about this house?”
Carter swallowed hard, backing toward the hallway threshold.
“Mom, don't listen to him! He’s trying to turn us against each other!”
“Did you mortgage my house, Carter?!” Reagan screamed, lunging across the desk and grabbing her son’s lapels with manic strength.
“Did you pledge my estate as collateral for your offshore loans?!”
“Get off me, you old fool!” Carter roared, violently shoving his mother to the floor.
Reagan crashed against the base of the marble fireplace, her diamond necklace snapping, sending pearls scattering across the polished floor like hail.
She looked up at her biological son with pure horror, finally seeing the monster she had raised and protected at the expense of everyone else.
“You took everything from me,” Reagan sobbed, clutching her bruised shoulder.
“I poisoned a good man for you... I sent his son to prison for you... and you robbed me blind!”
Carter raised the automatic pistol, pointing it directly at Camden’s face.
“Shut up! All of you, shut up!” Carter screamed, saliva spraying from his lips.
“None of this matters!”
“The money is already in the Liechtenstein account!”
“I have a private jet waiting at the regional airstrip thirty miles north!”
“All I have to do is leave this room, and none of you will ever see me again!”
“You aren't going to that airstrip, Carter,” I said calmly, stepping forward into his line of sight.
“Shoot me, and you prove every word on that hard drive is true.”
“Miller isn't going to help you.”
“Miller is sitting on that couch waiting to cut a plea deal with the county prosecutor.”
Carter swung the barrel toward my head, his finger tightening against the trigger.
“You think I won't do it, Finnley?!”
“You spent three years in a cage because you weren't smart enough to stop me!”
“I should have killed you the day you were released!”
Before Carter could pull the trigger, Camden Dennis moved with a speed that defied his poisoned body.
He stepped inside Carter’s guard, his left hand gripping the slide of the pistol and forcing the barrel toward the ceiling.
BANG!
The bullet ripped into the plaster crown molding above our heads, showering the room in white dust.
I drove my fist into Carter’s solar plexus with all the rage accumulated over 1,095 nights in Oakwood Prison.
Carter doubled over, wheezing violently, and Camden wrenched the weapon from his grasp with a sharp twist of the wrist.
Carter hit the floor hard, groaning in agony as Camden stepped over him, pressing the cold steel of the empty revolver against his temple.
“Three years, Carter,” Camden whispered into his stepson’s ear.
“Three years my son sat in iron for your greed.”
“Now you get to spend the next thirty years inside Oakwood, wondering what happened to your eighty million dollars.”
Flashing red and blue lights illuminated the grand windows of the study.
The deafening wail of state police sirens echoed up the driveway, followed by the roar of heavy tactical vehicles surrounding the estate.
Harold Hayes had delivered the evidence directly to the State Attorney General’s special investigative task force.
Dozens of armed state troopers flooded into the foyer below, their boots thundering up the grand staircase.
“State Police! Nobody move!” a commanding voice bellowed from the landing.
Camden Dennis stepped back from Carter, lowering his weapon and placing it neatly onto the marble table beside the red ledger.
He looked down at Reagan, who was weeping uncontrollably among the scattered pearls on the floor, her life’s ambition reduced to a pair of oncoming handcuffs.
May you like
Camden reached down, offered me his hand, and pulled me to his side.
“Let’s go home, son,” Camden Dennis said, his voice finally filled with the peace he had sought for three agonizing years.
