Chapter 5 - The Glass-Blowing Workshop
Detective Vance picked up on the second ring before I could even finish identifying myself.
“Detective, you need to issue an emergency warrant for Ravensworth Manor right now!” I shouted into the phone, slamming my foot down on the gas pedal and pulling out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires. “Claire knows we’re onto her, and she just threatened both Daniel and me over the phone! Daniel found a receipt from a custom glass-blowing workshop downtown where she manufactured the shards herself!”
“Slow down, Ms. Vance—slow down,” Detective Vance’s voice cut through my panic, calm and authoritative. “I already have a team pulling financial records. The glass-blowing workshop lead just panned out. Our undercover unit pulled the security footage from Prism & Pyre Glassworks downtown twenty minutes ago. Guess who walked in there four days ago wearing a wide-brimmed hat and paid cash for custom jagged borosilicate glass shards?”
“Claire,” I said, gripping the steering wheel so hard my hands shook.
“Got it in one,” the detective confirmed. “The artisan working the counter remembered her distinctly because she kept asking specific questions about how sharp the edges could be made without shattering prematurely under refrigeration. That upgrades our case from simple reckless endangerment straight to premeditated aggravated mayhem.”
“She’s threatening Daniel right now, Detective!” I urged, navigating the traffic lights as the city skyline rose before me. “She thinks they’re going to disappear before you get there. I’m heading to the estate right now—meet me at the front gates!”
“Negative, Ms. Vance! Do not approach that property alone!” Detective Vance ordered sharply. “I’ve dispatched two patrol units with a signed emergency search and seizure warrant. They’re five minutes out. Stay on the main road and wait for backup!”
I ignored his command entirely. I couldn't wait five minutes. Daniel’s terrified voice echoed in my head, and despite his cowardice in enabling Claire for months, he didn't deserve to be trapped in a house with a sociopath who manufactured weapons in her spare time.
My car tore down the private, unmapped road leading to Ravensworth Manor, the gray stone walls and iron perimeter gates looming into view through the trees. To my absolute shock, the massive iron gates were standing wide open, dragging lazily across the gravel driveway.
I drove my car straight through the open gates, parking recklessly near the grand double front doors of the mansion. I didn't wait for police sirens. I threw my car door open, leaped out onto the gravel, and bolted up the stone steps.
The heavy front door was unlocked, pushed slightly ajar.
“Claire!” I shouted into the echoing, cavernous foyer. “Daniel!”
Silence answered me. The grand hallway was completely empty, bathed in the dim light of the afternoon sun filtering through the high stained-glass windows. But as I stepped further inside toward the rear corridor leading to the kitchens and the basement stairs, a metallic, unmistakable smell hit my senses.
The sharp, coppery scent of fresh blood.
I followed the trail down the back hallway, my heart pounding in my throat, every instinct screaming at me to turn back. The door leading down to the sub-basement storage and utility cellars was standing wide open, a sliver of yellow light cutting across the dark concrete steps.
I crept down the stairs, moving as silently as possible, keeping my hand pressed against the cold stone wall. At the bottom of the stairs lay a heavy oak storage room, its door hanging off a splintered hinge.
Peering cautiously inside, I froze in horror.
Daniel was slumped awkwardly against a stack of wooden wine crates, his hands bound behind him with thick zip-ties, a deep crimson bruise swelling across his jawline. He was conscious, his eyes wide and terrified, staring toward the far corner of the cellar.
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Standing in the center of the room, holding a heavy glass decanter by its neck like a club, was Claire. Her wedding dress was stained with dirt and dark red wine, her hair falling wildly around her shoulders. She looked less like a blushing bride and more like a caged animal driven entirely by rabid fury.
And right beside her, watching the scene with cold, calculated detachment, was our mother.
