Chapter 7 - The Blood on the Dock
*CLICK.*
The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Claire gasped, her eyes widening in horror. She pulled the trigger again. *CLICK.*
Mark’s spare weapon had been unloaded. The magazine in the handle was an empty demonstration prop.
Grant’s laugh was sudden, sharp, and terrifying. “Did you really think I wouldn't anticipate you stealing Mark’s backup piece from the glove box? I had Leah swap the magazines three weeks ago when Mark brought his car to the venue.”
Before Claire could swing the heavy metal frame of the gun, Grant lunged forward.
His large hand clamped around her wrist, twisting violently until the gun clattered to the floorboards. His other hand slammed into Claire’s throat, shoving her backward against the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading out to the lake deck.
The glass shuddered behind her head. Claire choked, clawing at his fingers, kicking at his shins.
“You had everything,” Grant snarled into her face, his eyes wide and bloodshot with mania. “A beautiful home, a wealthy husband, a perfect little girl! And you ruined it all because you couldn't keep your spoiled brat out of a storage closet!”
Claire fought back with all the strength of a mother defending her child. She drove her thumbs into Grant’s eye sockets.
Grant roared in pain, stumbling backward, releasing her throat.
Claire didn't hesitate. She grabbed a heavy brass fireplace poker from the hearth and swung it with both hands. The metal bar struck Grant across the collarbone with a sickening crack.
Grant stumbled, crashing into the glass door. The tempered glass spiderwebbed, then shattered into thousands of crystal shards as Grant fell through onto the rain-soaked wooden deck.
Wind and rain roared into the cabin.
Claire followed him out onto the deck, the fireplace poker raised, her chest heaving. Rain plastered her hair to her face, washing away her tears.
Grant was on his hands and knees, clutching his shoulder, blood mixing with the rainwater pooling on the dock planks. He looked up at her, coughing, spitting blood onto the wet wood.
“You’re dead, Claire,” he wheezed, his voice filled with venom. “Even if the cops show up… my associates… they know where Sophie is…”
“No, they don't,” a cold, deep voice called from the darkness of the tree line.
Out of the rain stepped Mark Callahan, his combat rifle raised, the red laser sight glowing steadily against Grant’s chest. Behind him, three police tactical cruisers pulled onto the grass, their red and blue emergency lights illuminating the dark waters of Blackwood Lake in a strobe of blinding justice.
Detective Martinez stepped forward, his badge gleaming in the headlights, his service weapon leveled at Grant’s head.
“Grant Holloway,” Martinez announced over the roar of the wind. “Step away from Mrs. Vance and place your hands behind your head.”
Grant looked from the red laser on his chest to the dozen armed officers surrounding the deck. His arrogant smile finally, completely shattered.
“How?” Grant gasped, looking at Claire. “How did they track you?”
Claire lowered the brass poker, looking down at the broken monster at her feet with pure contempt.
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“The phone in Leah’s pocket wasn’t a burner,” Claire said quietly. “It had a live GPS ping linked to Martinez’s command center. I led them straight to you, Grant. I wanted you to confess. And every single word you said in that living room was recorded on the wire pinned under my collar.”
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