Chapter 10
The sound of heavy tires crunching on the gravel driveway outside echoed clearly through the tall, double-paned windows of the dining room. A second later, the amber glow of flashing cruiser lights cut through the sheer curtains, painting the ornate wallpaper in rhythmic pulses of red and blue. Richard froze, staring at the shifting light on the wall as if it were a physical blow. He didn't try to run anymore. The fight had completely drained out of him, leaving behind only the hollow shell of a man who had traded his soul for square footage and bank accounts. Two local deputies in dark uniforms stepped onto the front porch, their heavy boots announcing their arrival long before the brass door knocker struck the wood. Arthur walked over to the heavy oak door and pulled it open, welcoming the cold evening air into the stuffy, overheated room. "Evening, Sheriff," Arthur said, nodding to the older officer in the lead. "He’s inside. The ledger and the digital files are on the table." The deputy stepped into the foyer, his hand resting casually on his utility belt as he surveyed the ruined dining room—the shattered pitcher on the Persian rug, the old woman weeping softly at the head of the table, and Richard standing defeated against the sideboard. "Richard Miller," the deputy said, pulling a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt as he crossed the threshold. "You're coming with us downtown for questioning regarding corporate fraud and the falsification of probate documents." Richard didn't resist as the cold metal clicked around his wrists. He didn't look at Beatrice, nor did he look at Arthur. His eyes briefly met Elena’s, but there was nothing left to say between them—no threats, no excuses, just the final, heavy silence of an ending long overdue.
