Chapter 8 - The Trap Is Sprung
The grand foyer of the Lawson mansion was dead silent. The faint smell of damp pine and old wood filled the air.
Rachel stepped inside, her high heels clicking loudly against the marble floor.
“Lucas?” she called out, her voice dripping with artificial sorrow. “Lucas, darling? Where are you? We came back as fast as we could! We got the terrible news about Grandfather!”
No answer came from the darkness.
Gregory walked into the living room, flicking the light switch. “The useless idiot is probably cowering in his office. Lucas! Get out here!”
Suddenly, a loud, heavy CLICK echoed through the hallway.
The massive double oak front doors slammed shut behind them with violent force. The automatic deadbolts slid into place with a series of sharp, metallic thuds.
Pamela gasped, jumping backward. “What was that? Why did the doors lock?!”
“It’s just the central security system,” Derek said, though his hand instinctively went to his jacket pocket. “Lucas must have set the alarm.”
“Lucas!” Rachel yelled, her composure beginning to crack into annoyance. “Stop playing games and turn the lights on!”
At that exact moment, four high-powered floodlights snapped on from the second-floor balcony, blinding the four of them with dazzling white light.
Rachel covered her eyes, stumbling backward. “What the hell is this?!”
From the shadow of the grand staircase, a tall figure walked out slowly into the center of the light.
It was Lucas. He was wearing a sharp, tailored navy suit—not his muddy warehouse clothes. His hair was neatly combed, his expression calm, cold, and entirely unbothered.
In his right hand, he held a thick leather folder.
Rachel blinked, staring at him in disbelief. “Lucas? What are you wearing? Why are the lights on like this? Where is the coroner?”
“There is no coroner, Rachel,” Lucas said. His voice echoed through the high ceilings, flat and steady as a heartbeat.
Gregory took an angry step forward, pointing a shaking finger. “You arrogant little bastard! How dare you trick us! Do you have any idea how much money we spent chartering a flight back here? Where is Walter’s body?!”
“He’s right behind you, Gregory,” a raspy, powerful voice called out from the dark study archway.
The four of them froze as if struck by lightning.
Slowly, terrifyingly, the double doors of the study opened wide.
Stepping out into the bright floodlights, standing completely upright on his own two feet, dressed in his classic charcoal wool suit, was Walter Lawson.
Beside him stood Attorney Vance, Dr. Reynolds, and six heavily armed state police officers with drawn weapons.
Pamela shrieked, dropping her leather handbag onto the floor.
Gregory’s face drained of every drop of blood, turning a sickly, ghostly grey. He stumbled backward against the marble wall, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
“G-G-Grandfather?!” Rachel gasped, her voice cracking into a high-pitched scream of pure horror. “You... you're... you're standing?!”
Walter took three slow, deliberate steps toward them. His dark eyes blazed with a fierce, deadly light that made Derek take a step back.
“Did you enjoy the Bahamas, Rachel?” Walter asked softly. “Was the water nice? Was the champagne cold?”
Rachel looked frantically between Walter, Lucas, and the police officers. Her mind raced, desperately trying to construct a lie.
“Grandfather! It’s... it’s a miracle!” Rachel stammered, putting on a hysterical smile as she tried to walk toward him. “You’re awake! You’re healed! Oh my God, we were so worried about you! The doctors said—”
“Shut your mouth, Rachel,” Walter commanded. The raw power in his voice echoed through the entire mansion, stopping her dead in her tracks.
“You left me locked in a room without water,” Walter said, his voice trembling with righteous fury. “You put a rusty latch on my door. You called me a burden. You called me a piece of furniture.”
Rachel’s eyes darted to Lucas, wild with panic. “Lucas! Tell him! Tell him I love him! Tell him I was just stressed! Lucas, help me!”
Lucas looked at his wife—the woman he had loved for six years—and felt absolutely nothing.
“I heard the tape, Rachel,” Lucas said softly. “I watched the video.”
Lucas pressed a button on his tablet.
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A massive projection screen descended from the balcony ceiling, and the voice of Rachel Lawson filled the room, amplified through the home’s surround-sound speakers:
“The moment the old man dies, we'll throw Lucas out and keep everything.”
