THE GLASS PALACE OF ASHES

Julian didn't strike his uncle. To beat Arthur would be to descend to Victoria's level—to give in to the wild, senseless violence that had almost destroyed his life in the lobby.

Instead, Julian let go of Arthur's sweater, shoving him back onto the cold stone hearth. Arthur collapsed into a heap, gasping for air, clutching his throat as he wept on the floor.

Julian reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sleek black satellite phone. He pressed a single button and placed it on speaker.

"Detective Mercer," Julian said into the receiver.

"We have the mountain retreat surrounded, Mr. Vance," Mercer's voice boomed clearly through the phone, crisp despite the storm outside. "State troopers are coming up the driveway now. Did you secure the evidence?"

"It's on the floor, Detective," Julian replied, looking down at Arthur, who was staring at the phone with wide, horrified eyes. "And the suspect is ready for transport."

Outside, the storm was suddenly swallowed by the deafening, rhythmic whirring of helicopter blades descending over the roof of the retreat. Red and blue police lights cut through the thick fog, flashing wildly against the glass walls of the living room, painting the room in vibrant, shocking colors—the exact same colors that had filled the lobby three days ago.

Heavy boots slammed against the wooden porch outside. The front doors were kicked open, and armed state troopers flooded into the grand room, their rifles raised, their command voices echoing through the vaulted space.

"Arthur Vance, put your hands on your head! Do it now!"

Arthur didn't fight. He lay on the rug, surrounded by the photographs of his own treachery, weeping like a broken child as the officers pulled his hands behind his back and clicked the cold steel handcuffs around his wrists.

As they dragged Arthur to his feet, he looked at Julian one last time. "Julian... please... we're blood!"