Chapter 7
The Double-Cross Dinner
Detective Miller’s trench coat was soaked through with harbor mist.
He dropped the manila folder onto the mahogany foyer table with a wet thump.
Graham lowered the brass poker by an inch.
His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
“You retired five years ago, Miller,” Graham said, his voice dropping an octave into a mobster’s growl.
“Stay out of my house.”
“This isn't your house, son,” Miller replied, his weathered face deadpan.
“It was Arthur Vance’s house. Before you had him sign away the deed under duress.”
Miller turned his piercing gaze toward me.
“Good evening, Eleanor. You look just like your mother tonight.”
“Detective,” I said, stepping forward.
“What is inside that folder?”
Miller tapped the cardboard edge.
“Proof of murder, extortion, and corporate sabotage. Everything your husband worked ten years to bury at the bottom of Charleston Harbor.”
Graham’s expression twisted.
In one fluid motion, he raised the brass poker and swung it toward Miller’s head.
I reacted without thinking.
I threw my weight against Graham’s side.
The poker missed Miller by inches, crashing into the wall and gouging deep plaster.
Miller didn't flinch.
He drew a heavy steel revolver from his belt and leveled it at Graham’s chest.
“Put the stick down, Graham,” Miller ordered smoothly.
“Or I’ll ventilate your lungs right here in your fancy foyer.”
Graham slowly lowered the poker.
His chest heaved with suppressed fury.
He looked at me with pure, unadulterated hatred.
“You planned this,” Graham hissed.
“You invited him here.”
“I didn't invite anyone,” I said, my voice steady.
“But I’m damn glad he showed up.”
Miller kept the gun steady.
“Eleanor, take the folder and go to the study. I’ll deal with our host.”
“No,” I said, grabbing the manila folder.
“We do this together.”
Graham smiled. A dark, terrifying grin that reached his eyes.
“You think Miller can protect you?” Graham asked softly.
“My men control the port, the police precinct, and half the state senate. You can’t touch me.”
“We don't need to touch you, Graham,” Miller said.
“Federal marshals are already securing the docks. Your shipments of contraband were intercepted twenty minutes ago.”
Graham’s face lost every trace of color.
The illusion of absolute power shattered in real time.
“You lied,” Graham whispered.
“You set a trap.”
May you like
“Ten years in the making,” I replied, clutching the folder to my chest.
“Happy anniversary, husband.”
