THE ARROW ON THE WALL

Thomas Miller scrambled to his feet, holding an iron crowbar. His eyes were wide, bloodshot with panic. At forty-five, he was younger and stronger than Henry, but Henry possessed the wiry, relentless strength of a man who had worked the shipyards in his youth.

"You should have let James handle it, old man!" Miller shouted over the roar of the rain. "You should have kept that damn safe closed!"

"Your father took forty thousand dollars of Whitmore blood money," Henry growled, rising slowly to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder. "What did he promise you, Miller? A lifetime of silence?"

"He promised me this family wouldn't drag mine into the mud!" Miller swung the crowbar.

Henry ducked beneath the arc, lunging forward with a brutal left hook that caught Miller squarely under the jaw. The younger man stumbled back, cracking his head against the stone base of the nymph fountain. The crowbar slipped from his fingers, clanging onto the wet slate.

Henry didn't let him recover. He pinned Miller against the fountain, pressing his forearm hard against the man's throat.

"Where is my brother?" Henry demanded, his voice shaking with pure venom. "Where is Julian?"

Miller choked, his eyes bulging as he clawed at Henry’s forearm. "You... you have the key," he wheezed. "Look for yourself. My father didn't just take the money... he helped Alistair pour the cement."

A cold dread pooled in Henry’s gut.

He released Miller, sending him sprawling into the mud, coughing violently. Henry picked up the crowbar and turned back to the exposed hatch.

With a grunt of exertion, he wedged the bar under the lip of the heavy iron door and hauled it upward. The hinges screeched in protest, finally giving way. A dark, vertical shaft descended into the earth, lined with rusted iron rungs.

The smell that billowed out was unmistakable. It was the scent of a tomb.