If you leave that stray cat in your house, Martha, you'll be smelling her dead owner till spring, the deputy told me on the porch.
My foot was a dead weight, a throbbing agony that made it nearly impossible to stand. The root cellar, cold and damp, offered no comfort. But the discovery in Clara’s notebook—the cross-default clause—ignited a fierce fire in my spirit.
I had to move. I had to get those letters into the mail.
I emerged from the cellar, blinking against the pale, weak light of morning. My cabin still stood, though the smell of smoke clung to everything. The barn was a smoldering ruin, a black scar on the pristine snow.
As I limped back inside, every muscle screamed in protest. Barnaby stayed close, rubbing against my ankles.
The letters. I gathered them from the table, my only weapon.
Then, a sudden, splintering crash.
The front door. It burst inward, torn from its hinges with a sickening wrench of wood.
Julian Kross stood there, framed by the cold morning light, a crowbar clutched in his gloved hand. His face was a mask of furious rage, his eyes wild. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Where is it, you old witch?!” he roared, his voice echoing in the small cabin. “Give me the box! Give me Clara’s documents!”
He must have realized what I was planning, that I knew his weakness. He’d come for the evidence.
My heart hammered, but a strange calm settled over me. I had anticipated this. He was desperate.
“It’s not here, Julian,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “The originals are safe.”
He took a step forward, his eyes sweeping the small room, searching. He didn’t see the tin box. I had tucked it into a satchel I wore under my coat.
He advanced towards me, his gaze fixed on the table where I’d been working. He saw the empty envelopes, then his eyes narrowed on my face.
“Don’t lie to me, Martha! I know what you’re doing. I know about the ledger! Give it to me now!”
He lunged.
I didn’t try to fight him. I knew I couldn’t. Instead, I turned and limped quickly towards the adjacent hallway, the narrow passage leading to my back mudroom. Barnaby, sensing the danger, darted past my legs.
Julian was close behind me, his heavy boots thudding on the floorboards. “You can’t hide it, old woman!”
I reached the mudroom, a small, unheated enclosure that served as a buffer between the cabin and the back door. It was icy cold, the floor slick with condensation.
As Julian stepped into the mudroom, his eyes still searching for the box, I made my move.
Hidden behind the mudroom door, leaning against the wall, was a heavy oak beam. I had kept it there for years, a relic from an old barn repair, meant for shoring up a weak joist.
With a grunt of effort, ignoring the fiery pain in my foot, I pulled the beam from its resting place. It was heavy, far heavier than I should have been able to lift.
I swung it. Not at him, but across the mudroom exit, wedging it firmly against the doorframe, just as Julian stepped fully inside.
The beam slammed into place with a sickening thud, pinning him in the mudroom. It was too thick for him to simply push aside. He was trapped.
Julian stumbled, catching himself against the icy wall. He turned, his face contorted in disbelief and rage. He rattled the beam, pushing against it with all his strength. It held fast.
“You scheming old hag!” he screamed, his voice muffled by the thick wood. “Let me out! I’ll burn this whole place to the ground!”
I stood there, breathing hard, my back pressed against the cold wall of the hallway. The fire in my foot raged, but I had bought myself time. Time to finish this.
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