Chapter 2 - The Study
Julian followed the police officers up the winding marble staircase, his heart hammering violently against his ribs.
The second floor of the estate was usually a sanctuary of quiet luxury, but tonight, it felt like the corridor of a nightmare.
The heavy oak door to Arthur’s private study was wide open, revealing a scene that made Julian’s blood run completely cold.
The room was in absolute shambles, with expensive leather chairs overturned and bookshelves completely cleared of their contents.
Arthur Vance lay on the Persian rug behind his massive mahogany desk, completely motionless.
A large pool of dark crimson blood was rapidly spreading across the intricate patterns of the carpet.
"Arthur!" Julian yelled, rushing forward before an officer threw a heavy arm across his chest to hold him back.
"Sir, you cannot contaminate the crime scene, stay back," the officer commanded, though his own voice shook slightly.
A paramedic rushed into the room, dropping a heavy medical bag onto the floor and immediately pressing two fingers against Arthur’s neck.
Julian held his breath, praying to any god that would listen that his older brother was still alive.
"I have a pulse, but it's incredibly weak!" the paramedic shouted, immediately pulling a stack of gauze from his bag.
"He has severe blunt force trauma to the back of the head, and multiple lacerations, we need to transport him immediately!"
Julian watched in horror as the medical team worked frantically to stabilize his brother.
He scanned the ruined study, his sharp eyes looking for the weapon that had caused such catastrophic damage.
There was a heavy, solid bronze statue of a rearing horse missing from its usual place on the corner of the desk.
Julian’s eyes darted to the fireplace, where the heavy iron poker was also suspiciously absent from its stand.
Whoever had done this had not just struck Arthur in a moment of panic; they had beaten him with terrifying, deliberate ferocity.
Then, Julian noticed something incredibly strange about the scene.
There were bloody footprints leading away from Arthur's body, but they were small, frantic prints.
They were Leo's footprints, made when the terrified boy had run away from the horror.
There was absolutely no trail of blood leading toward the door that would match a woman in a long, emerald green evening gown.
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Caroline had somehow managed to commit this brutal assault without getting a single drop of blood on her immaculate dress.
Unless, Julian realized with a sickening jolt, she had planned this so perfectly that she had worn something else to do the deed.
