Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Chapel
Inside the private Northcott family chapel, the air was cold and heavy with the scent of lilies and damp marble.
Hundreds of white candles flickered along the stone walls, casting long, dancing shadows across the sealed mahogany casket that rested on the central catafalque.
Damon Northcott sat alone in the front row of dark oak pews.
His overcoat was draped over his shoulders, his hands resting on his knees. The chapel was completely silent except for the rain drumming against the stained-glass windows depicting Saint Michael slaying the dragon.
The heavy iron doors at the rear of the chapel groaned open.
Footsteps approached—measured, calm, echoing off the high stone vaulting.
Frank, Damon’s chief of security, stopped two paces behind the pew.
"Boss," Frank said softly.
Damon didn't turn around. "Did you find them?"
"They're at the Garrison cottage," Frank reported. "Wyatt drove them up in the old station wagon. They haven't left."
Damon took a slow, deep breath. "Is she... is Eliza okay?"
"She was moving slowly, sir," Frank said carefully. "The drive took a lot out of her. But the kids are taking care of her. Wyatt brought supplies. Micah built a fire. Phoebe hasn't left her side."
Damon closed his eyes. A sharp, phantom pain stabbed through his chest—a feeling far worse than any physical wound he had ever received in his years of building the family's enterprise.
"They chose her, Frank," Damon whispered, his voice cracking slightly in the empty church. "All four of them. They didn't even look back at me."
"With all due respect, boss," Frank said quietly, "you put a divorce paper in front of a pregnant woman and asked them to side with a dead woman’s anger. You didn't give them a choice. You gave them an ultimatum. And those kids were raised by Eliza to know the difference."
Damon didn't answer.
The side door near the altar opened, and Dr. Quentin Rusk stepped out from the vestry. He had removed his heavy overcoat, wearing a dark suit with a black tie. He carried a leather briefcase in one hand.
"Damon," Rusk said, walking over to the pews. "The county coroner’s office just called. They are requesting an official statement regarding the hospice records before they authorize the final burial certificate."
Damon stood up slowly, turning to face the doctor. "What kind of statement?"
"A simple confirmation that Eliza Northcott had sole administrative access to the medication protocols," Rusk said, pulling a folded document from his briefcase and setting it on the altar railing alongside a pen. "Once you sign this, the coroner will close the preliminary inquiry, sign the death certificate, and we can proceed with the interment."
Damon looked down at the paper.
Sworn Statement of Executive Oversight.
He picked up the document. His eyes scanned the formal legal text, designed to legally isolate Eliza, strip her of spousal immunity, and pave the way for an immediate criminal indictment.
"Where are the server logs, Quentin?" Damon asked quietly.
Rusk blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"The digital logs from the hospice server," Damon said, his eyes rising to lock onto Rusk’s. "Wyatt mentioned them in the library. I want to see the master override entries for the last forty-eight hours."
Rusk maintained a smooth, sympathetic smile. "Damon, Wyatt is a brilliant boy, but he is under immense emotional strain. The server logs are archived automatically under federal privacy laws. I can request a formal dump from the IT department on Monday—"
"I don't want it on Monday," Damon said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low hum. "I want it now."
Rusk’s smile faltered slightly. "Damon, this is your mother's funeral. The casket is standing before us. Is this really the time to indulge the wild distractions of a boy who just ran away from home?"
Before Damon could answer, the heavy double doors at the main entrance of the chapel were hurled open with a violent crash that echoed through the entire stone building.
The wind roared inside, extinguishing dozens of candles in an instant.
Standing in the doorway, framed by the grey winter storm and flanked by four tall silhouettes, stood Eliza Northcott.
In her right hand, she held the thick leather folder Celeste had given her.
May you like
Beside her, Wyatt held his laptop open, its screen glowing brightly against the dark marble floor.
"He doesn't need to wait until Monday, Quentin," Wyatt called out, his voice echoing through the holy space like thunder. "Because I just printed the master override logs right here."
