Chapter 4 - Into the Lion’s DenMy heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped animal. I slipped out of the pantry through the service door leading into the darkened back hallway of the mansion.
My immediate objective was clear: retrieve my phone, which Raymond had tossed into his tailored wool suit jacket hanging in the front foyer closet, and get out of this house before the dead man’s switch triggered at 10:00 PM and blew their entire conspiracy wide open.
The sprawling hallway was quiet, lit only by the faint moonlight streaming through the arched stained-glass windows along the grand staircase.
I crept silently across the Persian runner rugs toward the main entrance.
As I reached the mahogany foyer closet, I heard the heavy clinking of ice cubes and voices drifting from the formal study to my left. Raymond and Samuel were discussing the logistics of the offshore accounts where the embezzled waterfront development funds were being laundered.
I eased the closet door open an inch.
There it was—Raymond’s dark charcoal suit jacket hanging neatly on a wooden hanger.
I reached inside the breast pocket and my fingers brushed against cold metal. I pulled out my smartphone. The screen lit up instantly, displaying a horrifying notification banner across the lock screen:
Warning: Automated security protocol initiating in 45 minutes. Data package ready for transmission to Marcus Vance, US Federal Prosecutor.
Forty-five minutes.
If I didn't escape the estate perimeter and reach cellular service outside their high-frequency signal jammer, the upload would trigger right here inside their house, alerting their private network firewall and giving them time to wipe the servers before federal marshals could mobilize.
I slipped my phone into my pocket and turned to run toward the back service exit.
“Sabrina?”
A voice froze me in my tracks.
I turned slowly.
Diane stood at the entrance of the hallway, holding a silver tray with an empty brandy snifter. Her grandmotherly facade was completely gone; her eyes looked cold, sharp, and appraising, like a scientist studying a lab rat that had somehow wriggled out of its cage.
“How did you get out of the guest room, my dear?” Diane asked, her voice dangerously calm, devoid of any warmth or surprise.
“You didn't drug me enough, Diane,” I replied, my voice steady, carrying an edge of razor-sharp steel that made her pause.
Diane sighed softly, setting the silver tray down on a nearby console table with agonizing slowness. “Such a disappointment, Sabrina. You had a bright future ahead of you in this family. All you had to do was sleep, sign the papers, and let the men handle the heavy lifting. Why must modern women always insist on making things so violently complicated?”
“Because I prefer reality over a chemical prison,” I snapped.
Before Diane could raise her voice to call for the men, I lunged forward, grabbing a heavy brass umbrella stand from the corner of the foyer and tipping it sideways across the narrow hallway. Umbrellas, walking sticks, and heavy brass poles spilled across the floor just as Diane tried to rush past me.
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She tripped hard over the metal canes, crashing to the Persian rug with a sharp gasp.
I didn't look back. I bolted toward the heavy oak front doors, threw the security latch, and burst out into the cool, wet fog of Pacific Heights.
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