"My son served me dog food at my own seventieth birthday dinner… then I canceled the cards and exposed his secret.

The storm outside raged with renewed fury, pelting the windows of Ernest’s home with sheets of icy rain that sounded like handfuls of gravel being thrown against the glass. Inside, the house was dark and silent. Arthur had gone home hours earlier, and Ernest was fast asleep in his master bedroom upstairs, resting peacefully after a long day of legal work and quiet reflection.

At 2:15 AM, a shadowy figure crept up the wooden back deck of the house, moving with silent, desperate precision.

Marcus slid the heavy steel key into the deadbolt of the back kitchen door. With a faint *click*, the lock gave way. He pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, his wet shoes leaving dark, muddy footprints across the freshly polished hardwood floor.

He stood in the darkness for a moment, listening. The house was dead silent, save for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the howling wind outside.

Marcus pulled a heavy, solid-brass fireplace poker from his jacket—an item he had grabbed from the outdoor patio rack on his way in. His heart hammered furiously against his ribs, a frantic rhythm of adrenaline and madness. He crept down the hallway toward the master staircase, his eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight filtering through the skylight.

Every step up the wooden stairs creaked faintly under his weight, but he didn't care. He was past fear. He was past logic. All he could see in his mind was his father sitting comfortably in that big leather chair, holding the ledgers that contained the power to destroy him.

He reached the top of the landing and moved silently toward the master bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar. A thin strip of warm light spilled out from the crack.

Marcus gripped the brass poker tightly in both hands, raised it above his shoulder, and kicked the bedroom door wide open.

"Time to balance the books, old man!" he screamed, lunging into the room.

The heavy brass poker swung downward with lethal force, crashing with a deafening *thud*—not into a human body, but into an empty mattress piled high with pillows shaped to look like a sleeping figure.

Marcus froze, his breath catching in his throat.

From the darkened corner of the bedroom, a crisp, sharp click echoed through the room. A bright, blinding floodlight snapped on, illuminating every corner of the space.

Marcus spun around, shielding his eyes with his arm.

Sitting in a high-backed armchair by the window, completely dressed in his daytime suit, was Ernest. He wasn't trembling. He wasn't cowering in fear. In his right hand, resting calmly on the armrest, was a heavy-caliber revolver—and standing directly behind Marcus in the doorway, blocking every possible exit, were Detective Miller and two armed county deputies with their service weapons drawn and ready.