For three years, sixty-eight-year-old Arthur Pendelton worked as a part-time handyman and cleaner for Silas Holloway, an eccentric neighbor who had not set foot outside his coastal Oregon cottage i...
The wind howled like a banshee off Cape Meares, whipping rain horizontally against the dilapidated boathouse walls. Inside, the air was cold and damp, smelling of salt and decaying wood. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against the backdrop of the storm. I stood in the dim light, waiting.
The door creaked open, letting in a gust of wind and a spray of rain. Greg Kincaid stepped inside, shaking water from his expensive jacket. He spotted me, a predatory smile spreading across his face.
“Arthur. So, you finally saw reason,” he sneered, pulling the door shut behind him, plunging us into near darkness, save for the weak beam of a single lantern I’d brought. “Smart move. Took you long enough.”
He walked towards me, his boots clattering on the wet wooden floor. “Where’s the deed? My attorney will be happy to review it. Thirty thousand dollars cash, right? Cash speaks louder than any fraudulent will, doesn’t it?”
I held my breath, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. “Yes, Greg. I’m here to sign over my house. You win.”
He stopped a few feet from me, preening. “Of course, I win. It was always inevitable. You’re an old man, Arthur. Naive. You really thought you could fight me, for that half-million from that old crackpot Silas? Or keep your own little shack?”
He let out a short, triumphant laugh. “I told you, Arthur. Time was against you. That daughter of yours… poor thing. It’s a shame, really. But some things just aren’t meant to be, are they?”
His words twisted the knife in my heart. He was boasting, reveling in her suffering.
“You knew,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, forcing myself to look him in the eye. “You knew Clara was dying. You engineered this entire delay, didn’t you? So I would give up my claim, give you my land.”
Greg’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming in the lantern light. “Of course, I knew. I have ears, Arthur. People at the clinic talk. I just needed to make sure you were properly motivated to let go of everything. To ensure you had no other choice but to hand over that prime oceanfront property.”
He gestured around the boathouse with an open hand, a cruel flourish. “This land is worth a fortune. More than some old man’s hidden cash, more than your sentimental little cottage. Your daughter’s death just happened to be… collateral damage.”
My hand, slick with nervous sweat, reached behind me. My fingers fumbled for the rusted latch on the side door.
“That’s a rather full confession, Greg,” I said, my voice gaining a chilling calm. “And it just so happens, you have an audience.”
With a sudden, violent shove, I threw open the side door. The wind shrieked, tearing through the boathouse. Standing in the pouring rain, backlit by the distant flashes of lightning, were three dark figures.
Brendan O’Rourke, massive and unmoving, stood at the front, his face a mask of cold fury. Beside him, two towering enforcers, their trench coats soaked, their faces grim.
Greg froze, his eyes wide with terror as he recognized O’Rourke. The color drained from his face, leaving it ashen.
“O’Rourke?” he stammered, his voice cracking. “What… what are you doing here?”
O’Rourke stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous, easily cutting through the storm. “We heard everything, Kincaid. Especially about the ‘prime oceanfront property’ you used as collateral for my $200,000. The property you claimed your ‘elderly uncle’ willed to you. The property you never owned.”
Greg recoiled, stumbling backwards, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fear. The arrogance had completely vanished, replaced by the stark terror of a cornered animal. My trap had sprung.
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