Chapter 4
Before Richard could shake off his mother’s grip, the heavy oak front door at the end of the hall groaned open. The sound was distinct—the slow, heavy creak of brass hinges that hadn't been properly oiled in decades, followed by the heavy thud of boot heels on hardwood. Richard’s head snapped toward the hallway, his face twisting into an expression of pure, unadulterated dread. Beatrice gripped the table edge so hard her knuckles turned the color of chalk. Elena didn't look back; she simply lowered the phone from her ear, letting the device hang by her side as the screen finally went dark. A tall figure stepped into the threshold of the dining room. He wore a faded canvas work jacket over a flannel shirt, his graying hair cropped close to a scalp lined with old, faded scars. His face was weathered by decades of sun, wind, and hard labor, entirely unlike the polished, manicured existence of Richard’s world. Yet, the eyes were unmistakable—the exact same sharp, amber-brown gaze that stared out from Elena’s reflection in the window. Arthur stood in the doorway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, taking in the scene with a quiet, devastating calm. He looked at Beatrice first, a flicker of old sorrow crossing his features, before turning his gaze to his trembling brother-in-law. "Hello, Richard," Arthur said, his voice gravelly and low, carrying the unmistakable weight of a man who had spent two decades waiting for a single moment of justice. Richard stumbled backward, his hip catching the edge of the mahogany table, sending a silver candlestick clattering to the floor. "You're dead," Richard whispered, his voice cracking like dry ice. "I saw the report. I paid for the plot."
