Chapter 8 - The Auction of GhostsHolly wanted to turn.
Every instinct screamed at her to scan the ballroom.
Rossi smiled because he knew it.
“Don’t.”
She kept her eyes on him.
“Why?”
“Because whoever you look at first will know I told you.”
Weston’s voice became deadly.
“Enough.”
Rossi regarded him with amusement.
“You’ve always disliked conversations you cannot control.”
“Walk away.”
“I came to speak to Holly.”
“You are speaking through me.”
Holly almost told Weston she did not need him doing that.
Then she saw Rossi’s right hand.
A tiny red dot moved over his cuff.
Laser sight.
Someone had a weapon trained on him.
Or them.
Rossi saw Holly notice.
His smile did not change.
“Now you understand why none of us should become dramatic.”
Weston noticed her gaze.
His hand at her back shifted once.
A signal.
Stay still.
Across the room, Tristan stood near a marble column holding a whiskey he had not touched.
He saw Weston’s hand move.
His posture changed.
Rossi lowered his voice.
“Your mother found Arthur Hargrove’s records. She intended to give them to federal investigators.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Rossi’s eyes remained on Holly.
“You know Evelyn’s version.”
Holly felt cold.
“Tell me yours.”
“Ruth arranged to meet someone she trusted.”
“Who?”
“Rafe.”
Weston’s face hardened.
Rossi continued.
“Rafe convinced Ruth he wanted to destroy Arthur’s operation.”
Holly already knew how stories like that ended.
“She gave him the records.”
“Yes.”
“And he gave them to Arthur.”
“Most of them.”
“Most?”
“Rafe understood leverage even then. He kept copies.”
Holly swallowed.
“What happened to my mother?”
“Arthur wanted her killed.”
Weston’s jaw tightened.
“But?”
“Rafe changed the order.”
“To what?”
“Disappear.”
Holly stared at him.
Rossi smiled faintly.
“Not out of kindness. He wanted a witness alive in case Arthur turned on him.”
A wave of nausea moved through her.
Her mother had not escaped because someone failed.
She had been permitted to run.
A piece kept alive for future use.
“Where is Rafe?” Weston asked.
Rossi took a sip of champagne.
“Closer than you think.”
“Where?”
“He invited me here.”
Weston went still.
“This is his auction?”
“Partly.”
Rossi glanced around.
“Black Crown has become embarrassingly collaborative.”
Holly looked at the polished guests.
“Who are they?”
“People who believe money disinfects appetite.”
A bell rang from the main hall.
The auction was beginning.
Rossi stepped back.
“Lot 17.”
Holly froze.
He smiled.
“You should watch.”
Then he walked away.
Weston immediately touched his cuff.
“Tristan.”
His brother’s voice came through the concealed earpiece.
“I heard enough.”
“Find the shooter.”
“Already trying.”
“Holly leaves.”
“No,” Holly said.
Weston looked at her.
“Now.”
“Rossi wanted me to see Lot 17.”
“That is precisely why you are leaving.”
“If we leave every time they point a weapon at us, we learn nothing.”
“I am comfortable learning nothing if the alternative is burying you.”
The words stopped them both.
Weston’s eyes changed.
He had said too much.
Holly’s heartbeat became painfully clear.
“This isn’t about Elena,” she whispered.
His expression closed.
“No.”
It was not an answer.
“Weston.”
“Not here.”
The auction doors opened.
Guests moved inside.
Holly turned away from him before either could say something impossible to take back.
“Lot 17.”
He cursed quietly.
Then followed.
The auction ring was beautiful.
That was the obscenity of it.
Dark wood.
Gold lighting.
White flowers.
A string quartet playing near the balcony.
Each horse entered beneath warm spotlights while wealthy buyers lifted numbered paddles.
The first animals appeared healthy.
Well trained.
Calm.
Prices climbed into 6 figures.
Nothing illegal happened.
Not visibly.
Holly understood the design.
The public sale established clean ownership.
The real deals happened elsewhere.
Lot 17 entered.
Holly stopped breathing.
A black yearling colt.
Friesian.
Small white star hidden under his forelock.
Midnight’s shape in miniature.
The auctioneer began describing bloodlines.
Imported breeding.
Exceptional movement.
Private registration.
Holly barely heard him.
The colt’s eyes were wrong.
Not wild.
Drugged.
He stumbled once.
A handler jerked the lead.
Holly’s fingers curled.
Weston touched her wrist.
“Wait.”
The auctioneer announced the opening bid.
$250,000.
A paddle rose.
Then another.
$400,000.
$600,000.
Holly looked at the bidders.
Men.
Women.
A representative speaking into a phone.
Then she saw him.
Rafe Hargrove sat in the upper balcony.
Gray suit.
Silver hair.
Relaxed posture.
He was smiling at Holly.
Her entire body went cold.
Weston followed her gaze.
His expression became murderous.
Rafe lifted 1 finger to his lips.
Then pointed downward.
At the colt.
A screen displayed the animal’s temporary registration code.
BC-E17.
E-17.
Holly looked at Weston.
“He wants us upstairs.”
“No.”
“Weston.”
“No.”
Tristan’s voice came through the earpiece.
“Bad news.”
Weston’s eyes remained on Rafe.
“Specificity.”
“I found 3 shooters.”
“Three?”
“And probably missed several.”
“Exit?”
“Compromised.”
Weston swore.
Tristan continued.
“Also, Mother called.”
Weston’s face tightened.
“What?”
“Mary’s gone.”
Holly forgot the room.
“What?”
Weston turned sharply.
Tristan’s voice became controlled.
“She disappeared from the east garden 18 minutes ago.”
Everything inside Weston stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
Holly had seen that stillness before.
This was different.
This was the absence of a human response because the thing beneath it was too large.
“Who was with her?”
“4 guards.”
“And?”
“2 unconscious. 2 missing.”
“Midnight?”
A pause.
“Gone too.”
Holly understood before anyone said it.
Mary would follow Midnight.
Rafe knew it.
The horse had become the easiest way to move the child without force.
Weston turned toward the exit.
Holly caught his arm.
“Wait.”
He looked at her as though he might not recognize her.
“Get out of my way.”
“Rafe wants you to run.”
“My daughter is gone.”
“I know.”
“No, Holly.”
His voice broke.
“You do not know.”
The words hurt.
She released him.
Then forced herself to think.
Rafe on the balcony.
Mary taken from the estate.
Midnight gone.
Lot 17 deliberately marked E-17.
This was theater.
Rafe wanted Weston reacting, not thinking.
Holly looked at the drugged colt.
Then she saw the handler.
A tattoo beneath his cuff.
Crescent.
3 lines.
Kline mark.
She remembered the old facility.
Buildings marked with letters.
E was missing.
E had not been a building.
Maybe E meant something else.
Elena.
Escape.
Evidence.
Or East.
Holly’s mind snapped into focus.
“East garden.”
Weston stopped.
“What?”
“Mary disappeared from the east garden.”
“Yes.”
“Rafe used Elena’s E-17 reference.”
“Holly.”
“Kline coded routes as well as stalls.”
She looked toward Rafe.
“He’s telling us where.”
Rafe smiled.
“The colt is 17 months?” Holly asked.
Weston looked at the catalog.
“17.”
“E-17.”
“East 17.”
Tristan’s voice came through.
“East 17th what?”
Holly scanned the Black Crown auction catalog map.
The property included paddocks, barns and service roads.
East Barn.
Stall 17.
She pointed.
“There.”
Weston moved instantly.
They did not go through the main exit.
Tristan created a distraction by starting a fight with a casino owner who, to his visible confusion, had done nothing to deserve it.
2 security teams converged.
Music stopped.
Guests shouted.
Weston and Holly slipped through the staff corridor.
They reached East Barn in less than 4 minutes.
Stall 17 stood open.
Empty.
On the floor lay Mary’s gray teddy bear.
Weston picked it up.
His hand shook.
Holly had never seen his hands shake.
“Mary!”
Nothing.
Then a soft sound.
A horse whickered from beyond the rear doors.
They ran outside.
Midnight stood beneath the trees.
No saddle.
Broken lead rope.
Alone.
Holly’s heart sank.
“Midnight.”
The stallion turned.
Blood marked 1 side of his neck where the surgical dressing had torn loose.
Holly approached.
“Where is she?”
A foolish question.
A desperate one.
Midnight stepped backward.
Then turned toward the woods.
Weston stared.
“He wants us to follow.”
“Yes.”
They followed.
Midnight led them down a narrow trail behind the property.
At the bottom stood an abandoned stone carriage house.
The door was open.
Weston drew his gun.
Holly caught his sleeve.
“Mary first.”
He nodded.
They entered.
A single light burned overhead.
Mary sat on a chair in the center.
Unbound.
Unhurt.
Rafe stood behind her.
A pistol rested casually in his hand.
Weston’s gun rose.
Mary cried, “Daddy!”
“Do not move,” Rafe said.
Weston froze.
Holly remained near the door.
Rafe looked at her.
“You figured out the route.”
“Yes.”
“Ruth was clever too.”
“Do not speak about my mother.”
“You have her temper.”
“You wouldn’t know.”
“I knew more about Ruth than Arthur ever did.”
Weston’s voice cut through.
“Let Mary go.”
Rafe looked at his nephew.
“I will.”
“Now.”
“After we discuss Rossi.”
“I don’t care about Rossi.”
“That is your grief speaking.”
“That is my daughter sitting beside you.”
Rafe sighed.
“You always become sentimental at inconvenient moments.”
Mary looked at him.
“You’re bad.”
Rafe glanced down.
“That is impolite.”
“You took me.”
“I borrowed you.”
“People aren’t things.”
Holly’s throat tightened.
Mary had listened.
Rafe smiled.
“Elena’s daughter.”
Weston’s finger tightened around the trigger.
Rafe saw it.
“Careful.”
“Why did you kill her?”
Mary went still.
Holly’s stomach dropped.
Rafe’s face changed.
“I didn’t.”
Weston stepped forward.
“Do not lie to me.”
“I did many unforgivable things.”
Rafe’s voice became strangely flat.
“Elena was not one of them.”
“Rossi planted the bomb.”
“Yes.”
“On whose order?”
Rafe looked at Holly.
Then at Weston.
“Arthur’s account.”
“My father was dead.”
“Yes.”
“Then whose order?”
Rafe’s eyes moved toward the doorway behind them.
Holly heard the safety click before she understood.
Weston turned.
Evelyn stood in the entrance.
A gun pointed directly at Rafe.
May you like
Rafe smiled.
“Ask your mother.”
