I took the cane, feeling the solid, lethal weight of the brass handle in my palm, and nodded.
I crept back into the hallway, easing my way into the dark kitchen. The cottage windows faced the illuminated rear lawn of the main house. Through the shear curtains, I could see rapid flashes of white flashlight beams dancing across the second-story windows of Victoria’s architectural study.
They weren't looking for jewelry or silver flatware.
Flashlight beams were sweeping methodically across file cabinets, bookshelves, and desktop monitors. Papers were being violently overturned and discarded across the floor. They were searching for specific documents.
I reached the kitchen counter, picked up the ivory telephone receiver, and pressed it to my ear.
No dial tone. Not even static.
I traced the coiled wire downward with my fingers until I reached the baseboard wall jack. The telephone cord had been cleanly sheared in two with wire cutters.
A cold sweat broke out across my back.
This wasn't a random burglary. Whoever these men were, they had planned this. They had cut the perimeter communications lines before breaching the house.
Suddenly, the harsh glare of a high-powered tactical flashlight swept across the cottage porch.
One of the men had exited the main house.
He was jogging across the manicured lawn directly toward our guest cottage. In his left hand, he held a black leather portfolio bulging with schematics and blueprints; in his right hand, the heavy black handgun hung loosely at his side.
My heart nearly leaped out of my chest.
They know the cottage is occupied.
Or worse—they were checking every structure on the property to ensure no witnesses were left behind.
I dropped to my hands and knees, crawling beneath the kitchen island as the man’s heavy work boots thudded onto the wooden steps of our front porch.
The brass doorknob jiggled violently.
Fortunately, Victoria’s antique deadbolt was engaged.
“Hey, Victor!” a harsh, gravelly voice hissed from the main house driveway. The second man stepped out onto the lawn, hauling a heavy steel lockbox. “Forget the guest house! The alarm was bypassed, but the security company’s silent ping will alert the local patrol in under four minutes! We got the Sterling coastal land titles and the zoning manifests! Let’s move!”
The man on our porch paused. He leaned his face against the frosted glass pane of our front door, trying to peer into the darkened interior. Through the glass, I could see the cold, merciless outline of his jaw beneath a ski mask.
One second. Two seconds.
He spat on the porch floor, turned on his heel, and sprinted down the steps toward the waiting black pickup truck.
The engine roared to life with an aggressive, deafening snarl. Tires screeched across the wet gravel, spewing stones into the air as the truck whipped around the circular drive, smashed through the wooden security gate arm, and vanished into the darkness of the coastal highway.
I remained frozen beneath the kitchen island for a full minute, listening to the fading sound of the engine until the only noise left was the crashing of the ocean waves and the heavy, ragged sound of my own breathing.
A soft click sounded down the hall as Grandma Rose cracked open the bedroom door. She leaned against the doorframe, wrapped in her maroon cardigan, her eyes sweeping over me with fierce maternal protection.
“They’re gone,” I gasped, scrambling to my feet and rushing to support her. “Grandma, they took files from Victoria’s office. They had guns. They cut the phone lines.”
Rose’s jaw tightened. She looked out the window at the shattered wooden gate swinging loosely in the wind. “That poor girl,” Rose murmured softly. “Victoria was terrified on that airplane today, Emily. She wasn't just arrogant; she was running scared. She mentioned an investor summit that could make or break her life. Someone is trying to destroy her.”
“We need to get out of here,” I said, panic threatening to overwhelm me again. “If those men realize they missed something, they could come back. My phone is dead, the landline is cut. We have to walk to the nearest gas station or motel to find a working phone and call the police.”
“Walk three miles on the highway in the middle of the night with an eighty-six-year-old woman?” Rose raised an eyebrow, the classic, dry humor that had sustained our family through decades of adversity suddenly surfacing. “Sweetheart, my knees have about forty paces left in them before they turn to chalk. Look outside.”
I looked out the window.
Headlights were sweeping through the broken gate.
A sleek silver sedan tore up the gravel driveway, braking violently behind the main house. The driver’s side door flew open, and a woman stumbled out into the headlights, running frantically toward the splintered doors of the main house.
It was Victoria Sterling.
She was still wearing the gray airline sweater and track pants, her hair wild and disheveled. The moment she saw the shattered locks and the ransacked porch, she collapsed to her knees on the steps, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving with violent, silent sobs.
“Come on,” Grandma Rose said, taking her cane and heading firmly toward the front door. “Unlock the door, Emily.”
“Grandma, wait! What if it's not safe?”
“A girl is crying on her doorstep at three o'clock in the morning,” Rose said without pausing. “In our family, we don't watch people weep from behind closed curtains. Open the door.”
I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the cottage door.
The cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of salt and crushed gravel. Grandma Rose hobbled carefully down the porch steps, leaning on my arm, making her way across the wet grass toward the weeping architect.
“Victoria?” I called out gently as we approached.