Chapter 5 - The Lake House
The lake house sat on a secluded, heavily wooded peninsula along the northern shore of Lake Macbride, twelve miles south of Cedar Rapids.
My father had bought the property in 1984—a low-slung, rustic structure built from dark cedar logs and native river stone, surrounded by towering oak trees that draped over a private boat dock. It was where my brother Mason and I had spent our childhood summers fishing for bass, and where our family had gathered every Thanksgiving for thirty years.
It was also the one property owned personally by Florence Pendleton that was not registered under the Pendleton Enterprises corporate umbrella.
I drove my black suburban through the blowing snow, the tires crunching loudly against the unplowed gravel of the narrow access road. Beside me sat Frank Vance, a heavy Glock 19 resting on his knee, his sharp gray eyes scanning the dense treeline through the sweeping windshield wipers.
"Local police are thirty minutes behind us," Frank said, checking his watch. "I gave the state troopers the coordinates, but with this blizzard coming in off the lake, roads are slick as grease."
"We aren't waiting thirty minutes," I said flatly, pulling the suburban into the dark driveway.
At the end of the long lane, parked beneath the snow-covered canopy of three giant oaks, sat two vehicles.
A sleek silver Mercedes sedan—Brenda's company car. And a vintage black Lincoln Town Car—my mother's favorite vehicle, which she had driven for twenty years.
The lights inside the lake house were on. Warm, yellow light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the frozen lake, casting long, dramatic shadows across the snow-covered deck.
I shifted the suburban into park, pulled the emergency brake, and reached into the glove box, pulling out a heavy steel flashlight.
"Connor," Frank warned, touching my forearm. "If Albright is in there with them, he's already killed one man today. He has nothing left to lose."
"He hurt my wife," I said, my voice dropping into an ice-cold register that shocked even Frank. "He tried to put her six feet under the dirt while she was still breathing. If he's inside that house, he better hope the police reach him before I do."
I opened the car door and stepped out into the freezing wind.
The storm had intensified over the last hour, blowing thick sheets of dry, biting snow across the dark surface of Lake Macbride. The temperature was plunging fast, hovering near five degrees above zero.
Frank and I walked silently up the wooden steps of the rear deck, our boots making no sound against the fresh snow cover. Frank held his Glock at the low ready, his finger resting flat against the side of the frame.
Through the large glass sliding doors of the main living room, I could see three figures standing around a massive stone fireplace.
A fire was roaring inside the hearth, sending bright orange sparks crackling up the chimney.
My mother, Florence, stood near the center rug, wearing a long mink coat over her dark funeral dress. She was holding a thick, leather-bound ledger in her hands, her face illuminated by the firelight, her lips moving in a heated, furious argument.
Standing across from her was Brenda.
Brenda’s immaculate chignon had fallen apart; strands of dark hair hung loosely around her neck. She was pacing frantically back and forth across the hardwood floor, waving a heavy manila folder in the air, her face flushed red with panic.
And sitting in the armchair beside the fire was my younger brother, Mason.
Mason—forty-four years old, the vice president of human resources at Pendleton Enterprises, a man who had spent his entire life deferring to our mother and his ambitious wife—was holding a glass of amber bourbon in a trembling hand. He looked completely broken, his head slumped into his chest, tears streaming silently down his face.
Dr. Luke Albright was nowhere to be seen.
I stepped up to the sliding glass door, grabbed the heavy brass handle, and shoved it sideways with all the force in my body.
The door flew open, slamming against the outer frame with a violent crash that shattered the silence of the room.
The freezing winter wind rushed inside, blowing snow across the hardwood floor, causing the flames in the fireplace to roar and sputter violently.
Florence gasped, dropping the leather ledger onto the rug. Brenda spun around, her eyes widening in absolute horror as she saw me standing in the doorway, framed by the dark storm behind me. Mason dropped his bourbon glass; it shattered against the stone hearth, amber liquid pooling over the hearth rug.
"Connor!" Mason choked out, scrambling backward in his armchair like a terrified child.
I took three long, deliberate steps into the living room. My suit was damp from snow, my boots leaving muddy streaks on the polished oak floorboards, my face set in a mask of pure, unyielding stone. Frank Vance stepped in behind me, his weapon aimed squarely at the center of Brenda's chest.
"Where is Luke?" I asked, my voice cutting through the sound of the wind like a steel blade.
No one answered. The only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and Mason’s ragged, terrified breathing.
"I asked you a question," I said, stepping closer to my mother. "Where is Dr. Albright?"
Florence drew herself up to her full height, adjusting the collar of her mink coat with trembling, age-spotted hands. She forced a look of cold, maternal authority onto her face—the same look she had used to control my father, my brother, and me for forty years.
"Luke has left the state, Connor," Florence said, her voice dry and surprisingly steady. "And you shouldn't be here. You should be at the hospital with your daughter."
A bitter, terrible laugh bubbled up from my throat.
"My daughter is sitting beside her mother," I said, leaning down until my face was six inches from my mother’s. "The mother who is currently breathing in an ICU bed because a strap snapped on a coffin you tried to cover with dirt."
Florence didn't flinch. She didn't look away.
"It was necessary," she whispered.
The absolute, casual coldness of those three words hit me like an iron bar across the chest.
"Necessary?" I roared, the rage finally detonating inside me, shaking the wooden beams of the cabin ceiling. "She is my wife! She is the mother of your granddaughter! You tried to bury her alive!"
"She was going to destroy this family!" Florence screamed back, her aristocratic composure finally shattering into pure, hysterical venom. "She was going to destroy everything your father built! Everything I sacrificed my entire life to protect!"
"She found out about Brenda, didn't she?" I demanded, pointing a finger at Brenda, who was cowering behind the armchair. "She found out Brenda was embezzling from the purchasing department!"
"It wasn't just embezzlement, you idiot!" Brenda shrieked from the corner, her voice cracking with pure terror. "It was twenty-four million dollars over six years! Pendleton Enterprises was going under, Connor! The logistics contracts in Chicago were failing! I moved the money into offshore accounts to keep the company afloat! Vivian found the audit reports three weeks ago! She was going to the federal prosecutors on Monday!"
I stared at Brenda, the scale of the treason taking my breath away. "Twenty-four million..."
"Vivian wouldn't listen to reason!" Brenda wept, clutching her face in her hands. "I offered her a share! I offered to cover it up! She said she was going to turn me in, turn Mason in, turn the whole company over to the FBI!"
"So you poisoned her," I said softly, looking at my brother. "And you sat by and watched, Mason? You let your wife and your mother plan the murder of my wife?"
Mason buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with violent, pathetic sobs. "I didn't know about the poison, Connor! I swear to God I didn't know! They told me she was sick! They told me Luke was giving her a sedative to keep her quiet until we could fix the books!"
"Liars!" Frank Vance’s voice cut in from the doorway, his gun still raised. "Albright didn't run. Look at the mud on the tires of that Lincoln outside, Connor."
I turned my head slowly, looking out the glass door toward the driveway.
A sudden, horrifying detail clicked into place.
The black Lincoln Town Car sitting in the driveway wasn't covered in a fresh layer of snow. The roof was covered, but the wheel wells were caked in fresh, wet red clay—the exact same clay that filled the lower trenches of Oakridge Memorial Cemetery.
"He's not in Switzerland," Frank whispered, his eyes locked onto the floorboards beneath our feet. "He's down in the cellar."
Before anyone could move, a sudden, heavy metallic bang echoed from the trapdoor hidden beneath the Persian rug near the fireplace.
The wooden latch turned from below.
May you like
The trapdoor flew open, and Dr. Luke Albright hauled himself out of the dark cellar, holding a snub-nosed revolver in his right hand, his face covered in sweat and coal dust.
"Shoot him, Luke!" Florence screamed.
