“Rose is dying,” I yelled down. “She has pneumonia. You have medicine in your car. Give me the medical kit, and I’ll give you what you want.”
Vanessa sighed, an exaggerated sound of annoyance. “She’s always been dramatic. Grant, get the bag from the trunk.”
Grant hesitated, glaring up at me. “He’s playing us.”
“He’s a broken, grieving widower trapped in a blizzard,” Vanessa sneered. “What’s he going to do? Sue us? Get the bag. And bring the deed.”
Ten minutes later, we were in the living room. The girls remained locked upstairs. I stood behind the kitchen island, the steel box resting in front of me. Grant tossed a red medical bag onto the counter, keeping his hand near the heavy hunting knife on his belt.
Vanessa slammed a legal document down next to the bag. “Sign it. It’s a quitclaim deed. It transfers all your executor rights of the property to me. Once you sign, you give us the box, take the pills, and we leave you and the brats alone.”
I pulled the document toward me. Even by the dim light of the flashlight, I could see the sloppy legal work. It was a standard template, but the notarization stamp at the bottom caught my eye.
Notary Public: Arthur Penhaligon. State of Nevada.
I almost smiled. I recognized that name. Arthur Penhaligon was a corrupt fixer I had prosecuted three years ago. He was currently serving a five-year sentence in a federal penitentiary. The stamp was completely forged.
They thought grief had made me blind. They thought I was just a “paper pusher.”
“I need a pen,” I said, letting my shoulders slump in defeat.
Grant smirked, tossing me a heavy silver fountain pen. “Smart boy.”
I opened the document to the signature page. I didn’t just sign my name. Underneath the signature line, in cramped but perfectly legible script, I wrote a specific legal addendum. I cited the state penal code for extortion under duress (Section 518) and added a clause stating that the signature was provided under imminent threat of physical harm, rendering the contract void ab initio, and serving as a confession of coercion by the presenting parties.
I signed it rapidly, sliding it back across the counter.
“There,” I breathed heavily. “Take it. Give me the medicine.”
Vanessa snatched the paper, her eyes gleaming with absolute triumph. “You always were a coward, Daniel. Mara was a fool to leave everything to you. Come on, Grant. Let’s take the box and leave this loser to freeze.”
Grant reached for the steel box. I let him take it. He didn’t know the code. He didn’t know about the acid.
But as Grant turned, his flashlight beam swept across the document in Vanessa’s hand. He stopped. He stepped closer, squinting at the small text I had written beneath my signature.
Grant wasn’t a lawyer, but he wasn’t completely stupid. He recognized the legal jargon. He saw the word extortion.
His face went rigid. Slowly, he looked up at me, his eyes dead and cold. He dropped the box on the counter. His hand went to the hunting knife on his belt, drawing it with a metallic shhhk.
“What did you write?” Grant hissed, stepping around the kitchen island.
“I wrote the truth,” I said, my voice losing all its previous tremble. I stood up straight, locking eyes with him.
“You think you’re clever, Daniel?” Grant growled, raising the blade. “You think some words on a paper matter when no one is going to find you alive?”
Vanessa stepped back, her eyes widening. “Grant, just kill him and grab the kids. We can stage a fire—”
Before she could finish her sentence, the entire living room was suddenly bathed in a blinding, strobing light.
Red and blue. Sweeping violently through the frosted, broken windows.
The heavy, authoritative wail of a police siren cut through the howling blizzard, vibrating the floorboards beneath our feet.
Grant froze, the knife hovering in the air. The color completely drained from Vanessa’s face.
“You called them?” she whispered, pure panic replacing her arrogance. “How? The lines are dead!”
“Satellite beacon, Vanessa,” I said, grabbing the heavy iron fireplace poker from the hearth. “State Attorney General’s office. They don’t let blizzards stop them.”
The front door, already weakened by Grant’s earlier attempts, exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood and ice. Four state troopers in heavy tactical winter gear swarmed the room, assault rifles raised. Behind them, shaking snow from her tactical jacket, was Elena Ruiz.
