Chapter 8 - The Power of a Child
"It's over, Leo," Judge Sterling said calmly, beginning his slow ascent up the grand staircase, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the carpeted steps. "Nobody is going to believe a hysterical child. By tomorrow morning, the doctors will certify that you suffered a fatal relapse from your brain fever."
Jonathan stepped closer from behind, his hands twitching. "You should have kept your mouth shut in court, boy."
Leo backed up until his spine pressed against the wooden balustrade. The cold draft from the broken window above swept over his small frame.
He looked down at the brass lamp in Sterling’s hand. He looked at the shattered banister beside him.
He didn't scream. He didn't cry. A profound, unnatural calm descended over the six-year-old’s mind—the same cold stillness that had allowed him to watch his father die without making a sound.
"Clara told me something," Leo whispered, his voice clear and steady in the quiet house.
Sterling paused three steps below the landing. "What did she tell you?"
"She said that bad men are always afraid of the dark," Leo said.
With a sudden, violent movement, Leo reached out and grabbed the heavy velvet window curtain hanging beside the balustrade. He pulled it with all his small weight, tearing the iron rod clean off its brass mountings.
The heavy, dusty velvet curtain fell straight over Judge Sterling’s head, blinding him and wrapping around his arms.
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"What the—!" Sterling yelled, struggling blindly beneath the heavy fabric. He stumbled backward down the stairs, dropping the brass oil lamp.
The lamp struck the marble floor of the foyer below and exploded into a bright, roaring sheet of orange flame, igniting the dry wooden paneling of the walls.
