Chapter 8 - Crashing the Party
The main house was brightly lit, the sounds of classical music and clinking crystal echoing across the manicured lawn. I didn't bother with stealth anymore. I walked right up to the heavy oak double doors of the patio and kicked them open with my good foot.
The dining room went dead silent. Ten of Charleston's wealthiest elite sat around a sprawling mahogany table, dripping in diamonds and silk. At the head of the table sat Arthur Thorne, raising a glass of expensive red wine. Next to him sat my mother, Helen, looking like a porcelain doll.
My father’s face drained of color. The wine glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor. To the guests, I must have looked like a demon crawling out of hell—bruised, starved, covered in dirt and David's blood, holding a steel tire iron.
"Arthur," I said, my voice echoing in the grand room. "You left a mess in the woods. I came to clean it up."
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"Marcus," my mother gasped, clutching her pearls. "You... you're alive." "No thanks to you, Mom," I spat. I turned my glare back to the man who had raised me. "Eight million dollars, Dad. Was that the price of your grandson's life?"
The guests began to murmur in horror. One of them pulled out a phone to call the police. I didn't stop them. Let the cops come. I wanted an audience for what was about to happen.
