Page 64 of Where The Devil Kneels

“The Hales have always excelled at revisionist history,” Garrow replies, though a new tension threads through his voice. “The fact remains that my family has prospered while yours has dwindled to a single, rather desperate inheritor.”

“Desperate enough to actually read all of Grandmother’s journals,” I counter, taking another deliberate step that forces him to turn slightly to maintain eye contact. “Including the parts about how each Garrow ritual has grown progressively weaker. Your father needed three sacrifices. Your grandfather needed only one. How many will you need, Lyle? Five? Ten?”

His jaw tightens. I’ve struck a nerve. Garrow’s grip on Marta shifts, momentarily looser as he focuses on me.

“Careful, Ms. Hale. You’re dabbling in matters beyond your understanding.”

“Am I? Or am I just the first Hale in generations to understand exactly what we’ve been fighting?”

In that fraction of a second where doubt flickers across his face, Silas makes his move. He lunges across the remaining space, slapping his palm against the decorative rosette on the fireplace panel. The mechanism engages with a heavy metallic clunk that reverberates through the floor beneath our feet.

The massive bookshelf beside Garrow lurches and topples. He barely looks up before it crashes down. He releases Marta and throws himself aside, the knife skittering away as books bury him.

His men shout, momentarily frozen by the unexpected collapse, giving Jonah the opening he needs. He throws his shoulder into the goon nearest him, knocking the man off-balance, then rolls across the floor to retrieve his service weapon. In one smooth motion, he’s up and transmitting into his radio.

“Officer down at Hale Estate,” he barks, his voice steady despite the chaos. “Requesting immediate county backup. Multiple armed suspects, hostage situation, officer in distress. Repeat, county units only.”

Dr. Rao doesn’t waste the distraction either. She somehow managed to free her hands during the commotion; those medical skills apparently extend to escape artistry, and she sprints to Marta’s side. With surprising strength, she pulls the teenager away from the fallen bookshelf and Garrow’s struggling form beneath it.

“Get behind me,” Dr. Rao orders, already examining the cut on Marta’s throat with clinical precision. “It’s superficial. Keep pressure here.” She guides Marta’s hand to the wound while scanning for other injuries.

Garrow’s men scramble to dig him out, books flying. Muffled cursing rises from beneath the pile, promising vengeance in increasingly creative terms.

I turn toward the windows, where the first pale light of dawn filters through the tattered curtains. What I see makes me gasp, not just the usual empty lawn, but people. Dozens of them, forming a hesitant crowd at the edge of the property. Some hold flashlights, others clutch phones, recording what’s happening. Word must have spread about the standoff at the Hale estate.

“The whole town is out there,” I whisper to Silas, who follows my gaze with a mixture of alarm and something that might be hope.

“Witnesses,” he says softly. “After generations of shadows, finally, witnesses.”

The library doors bang open. Nora barges in wearing a faded bathrobe, hair everywhere, a battered satchel already spilling papers.

“I heard the call on my police scanner,” she announces to no one in particular, her eyes scanning the chaos before settling on me. “Figured it was time.”

She marches straight to the one table still standing and upends the bag. Newspaper clippings, reports, photographs, handwritten notes — all of it spills across the wood.

“Forty-seven disappearances since 1920,” Nora says, slapping down a stack of missing persons reports. “All connected to Garrow business interests. Land transfers after each one. Medical examiner reports with cause of death redacted. Cemetery plots bought by Garrow shell companies before the people even went missing.”

The doorway fills with hesitant figures, townspeople who’ve found courage in numbers, venturing inside the infamous Hale estate perhaps for the first time. Their faces register shock as they take in the scene: Garrow half-buried under books, his men still trying to extract him, Jonah with his service weapon drawn, Marta bleeding but alive with Dr. Rao attending her.

“My brother didn’t just leave town, did he?” A woman asks, stepping forward to pick up a missing person report. I recognize her as one of the owners of the hardware store downtown. “That’s what they told us, but we never heard from him again. After he refused to sell his shop to Garrow Development.”

“Same with my aunt,” adds another voice from the crowd. “1998. They said she moved to Florida. Never even got a Christmas card.”

The documents pass from hand to hand, recognition dawning as names of long-lost friends and family members appear in Nora’s carefully preserved records. Whispers grow to murmurs, murmurs to outraged exclamations as connections form like electric currents jumping between minds.

“All this time,” someone says, voice thick with grief and anger. “All this time we thought they just left.”

Garrow finally emerges from under the pile of books, his perfect suit now torn and dusty, blood trickling from a cut above his eye. His composure cracks as he takes in the scene before him: townspeople reading evidence of his crimes, his men uncertain whether to continue helping him or make a run for it, county police sirens wailing in the distance.

“This proves nothing,” he snarls, trying to straighten his jacket. “Circumstantial evidence. Conspiracy theories. Fabrications from a family nobody cares about anymore.”

But I can see it in the faces around us, the spell is breaking. Years of fear and wilful ignorance giving way to horrified understanding. The town that Garrow thought he owned is finally seeing him for what he is.

And he knows it too.

Garrow's face twists as he watches it all fall apart. His eyes dart around the room — exits, options — and for the first time, the polished mask is just gone. His hands clench and unclench at his sides while the murmurs around him get louder.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he hisses at me, voice dropping to a register that raises the hair on the back of my neck. “Generations of sacrifice, of careful cultivation—all to maintain the balance that keeps this miserable town alive.”