Chapter 3 - Bloodied Plaster And Bound Wrists
Arthur's large, calloused fingers worked frantically at the braided nylon knots, uncoiling the tight binding with practiced precision.
The rope fell to the floor like a dead snake, revealing brutal purple ligature marks ringing Julian's slender wrists.
"I've got you, Julian, I've got you," Arthur repeated in a low, trembling voice that barely masked his volcanic fury.
He slid his powerful arms beneath Julian's dusty armpits, hauling the nineteen-year-old bodily out of the cramped tomb.
Julian let out a ragged groan of agony as his stiffened limbs were dragged across the broken fragments of drywall.
I threw myself onto my knees beside them, instantly wrapping my arms around my brother's shaking shoulders.
His skin was ice-cold to the touch, and his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird beating against a cage.
"You're safe now, Julian, you're out," I sobbed, pressing my forehead against his dusty hair.
He buried his face into the fabric of my pale blouse, gasping for air as though he had just surfaced from drowning in the ocean.
Arthur remained kneeling on the debris-littered floor, his heavy hands resting protectively against his son's spine.
For five agonizing seconds, the only sound in the magnificent room was the sound of Julian's frantic, shallow hyperventilation.
Then, my father's posture shifted with terrifying suddenness.
His broad shoulders locked into rigid lines, his spine straightening as the desperate father yielded to the lethal protector.
He slowly lifted his gaze away from the broken wall and turned his eyes toward the open double doors.
Standing just inside the archway, frozen beneath the ornamental moulding, was Martha Higgins.
The forty-eight-year-old head housekeeper stood with her hands clasped tightly in front of her crisp black-and-white uniform.
Her dark hair was pulled into its usual immaculate, severe bun, her sharp cheekbones pale under the hallway lights.
Her expression was a masterclass in calculated neutrality, though her dark eyes flickered with suppressed terror.
She had supposedly been off-duty on the ground floor, preparing the evening inventory lists.
Yet here she stood, hovering in the doorway without a single breath of surprise escaping her lips.
She had not gasped when the wall came down, nor had she rushed to offer assistance to the gasping boy.
Arthur's jaw clenched until the muscles along his temples throbbed against his weathered skin.
His piercing blue eyes narrowed into slits of pure, unadulterated venom.
"Who the hell did this to my son?!" Arthur's voice erupted across the cavernous playroom like a crack of thunder.
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The sheer volume of his shout rattled the crystal pendants hanging from the chandelier high above.
Martha took a single, involuntary step backward, the mask of polite servitude crumbling instantly from her face.
