Page 33 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Actually, it’s exactly the appropriate time,” Nora counters, moving toward the council table with purposeful strides. “Before we continue questioning Miss Hale about her mental state, the council should review these historical records from the town archives.”

She places the documents before Garrow with a thud that seems to reverberate through the suddenly silent room. “These are propertyrecords and newspaper accounts dating back to 1873. They document how the Hale estate has always served as a sanctuary for those persecuted by certain elements in town leadership.”

“This is highly irregular,” sputters Councilwoman Pritchard, but her eyes betray a nervousness that wasn’t there before.

“What’s irregular,” Nora continues, now addressing the gallery directly, “is how every fifty years or so, this council suddenly develops ‘concerns’ about the Hale property. Always after it passes to new ownership, always with insinuations about mental instability.” She taps the top document meaningfully. “The pattern is quite clear to anyone who cares to look.”

The council members exchange glances tinged with discomfort. Fleming adjusts his glasses with trembling fingers. Garrow’s face has gone rigid with controlled fury.

“We will need to review these materials before proceeding further,” he announces, voice tight as he bangs his gavel. “This portion of the meeting is adjourned. Miss Hale, you’ll be notified when we’re ready to continue our discussion.”

The abrupt dismissal sends a murmur of confusion through the crowd. I gather my belongings with deliberate calm, though my heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised the microphone doesn’t pick it up. Nora catches my eye from the side of the room, giving me a tiny nod before slipping out a side door, documents left pointedly splayed across the council table.

I’m halfway to the main exit when a hand clamps around my upper arm, pulling me into a shadowed alcove beneath the grand staircase. Garrow’s face hovers inches from mine, his expensive cologne failing to mask the sour tang of rage seething from him.

“You think you’re clever,” he hisses, grip tightening painfully. “But you have no idea what you’re involved in. That house belongs to this town—to me—by rights older than any deed.”

I wrench my arm free with enough force to send him staggering back a half-step, my skin burning where his fingers had dug in. “Put your hands on me again,” I hiss through clenched teeth, my voice dropping to a register I barely recognize, “and I will break every one of those manicured fingers before I file assault charges.”

He laughs, a sound like glass breaking underfoot, and leans in until I can smell the coffee rotting on his breath. “Against the mayor?” His eyes bulge with a feverish gleam. “With whose police force?” His fingers twitch at his sides, as ifalready imagining them around my throat. “Wake up, little girl,” he snarls, spittle hitting my cheek. “You’re alone here. Completely. Fucking. Alone.”

I lean in, my voice dropping to a razor’s edge. “If I disappear like Thomas Webb did, people will ask questions,” I whisper, the name hitting him like a physical blow. His pupils dilate, nostrils flaring as the blood drains from his face. For one perfect moment, raw fear replaces his smug superiority.

“So you do know something.” His voice drops further, barely audible over the departing crowd’s footsteps. “That makes you not just annoying but dangerous. Consider carefully what that means for your future in my town.”

He straightens his tie with manicured fingers, mask of civility sliding back into place. “Good evening, Miss Hale. I’d suggest you lock your doors tonight.” With a final smile that chills my blood, he rejoins the dispersing council members.

Outside, the evening air feels blessedly cool against my flushed skin. I’m halfway down the steps when someone collides with me, Marta Ellery, her thin frame nearly bouncing off mine, dark braid swinging with the impact.

“Sorry,” she mumbles loudly, eyes darting to the police officer stationed at the bottom of the steps. Her fingers press something into my palm, a folded slip of paper, before she hurries away, shoulders hunched defensively.

I wait until I reach my car to unfold the note, hands trembling slightly.

They’re coming tonight. Safety inspection. 11PM. Back entrance. Garrow has a warrant. LEAVE OR HIDE.

The handwriting is cramped and urgent, pressed so hard into the paper that it’s created ridges I can feel with my fingertips. I check my watch, 8:27 PM. Less than three hours to prepare for whatever Garrow has planned.

I start the engine with shaking hands, heart hammering against my ribs. Not enough time to pack, not enough time to think. Only enough time to race home and warn Silas before Garrow’s men descend on our sanctuary.

My tires squeal as I take the sharp turn onto Willow Creek Road, the longer route home, but one that loops behind farmland where Garrow’s watchdogs are less likely to follow. The Volvo’s ancient engine protests as I push it harder than its Swedish engineers ever intended, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. Every shadow between the trees looks like a lurking vehicle, every pair of headlights in my rear view mirror a potential tail. Paranoid? Maybe. But it’s not paranoiawhen they’ve literally announced they’re coming for you. Marta’s note burns in my pocket like a lit fuse, counting down to whatever “inspection” Garrow has planned.

I kill my headlights and plunge the car into darkness, white-knuckling the wheel as I navigate the estate’s rear service road by nothing but moonlight and muscle memory. My heart slams against my ribs with each bump in the road. The house suddenly looms before me, a massive black silhouette cutting into the night sky like a fortress rising from hell itself.

The windows glow strangely, almost like eyes watching me as I pull up. The old stones seem to give off a silent warning as I stop the car. My heart pounds as I realize this place isn’t just my inheritance—it’s been a battleground for a hundred years, and tonight, I’m the only one protecting its secrets from the people who want to destroy it.

The back door opens before I reach it. Silas stands in the threshold, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a hammer tucked into his belt. Behind him, I glimpse stacks of wooden boards and tools scattered across the kitchen floor.

“You know,” I say, brushing past him into the house, my words coming out breathless and rushed. “About the raid. The inspection.”

“I suspected something was coming,” he confirms, securing the door behind me with three separate locks I never noticed before. “Garrow’s movements today suggested mobilization. And Nora sent a warning through our emergency channels.”

“We have less than two hours,” I tell him, shrugging off my blazer and draping it over a kitchen chair. “Marta said they’re coming at eleven with some kind of warrant.”

Silas nods once, his expression grim but unsurprised. “We’ve prepared for this scenario. The most vulnerable points are already secured.” He gestures toward the library. “I’ve moved the most damning evidence to protected locations throughout the property.”

I follow him through the house, suddenly seeing it with new eyes, not as my inherited home but as a fortress being readied for siege. Silas has been busy in the short hours since I left for the meeting. Key windows have been discreetly reinforced with wooden braces that blend with the existing trim. Certain floor sections have been subtly marked with chalk symbols I don’t understand.

“What exactly is Garrow after?” I ask, helping him lift a heavy bookshelf to block a vulnerable side window. The wood is solid oak, and my muscles burn with the effort.