Chapter 17

The quiet of the night wrapped around Sylvester’s estate like a heavy blanket. The only sound was the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, its slow, methodical rhythm marking the passing of time. Sylvester lay in his bed, half-asleep, his mind drifting between scattered thoughts. The tension from the day had worn him out, and for the first time in weeks, he felt a strange sense of calm.

But that calm was shattered by a loud crash.

His eyes flew open, heart hammering in his chest. He sat up quickly, listening. Another crash, louder this time, echoed through the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of glass breaking.

“What the hell…” Sylvester muttered under his breath, throwing the covers off. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, checking the time: 2:17 AM.

There was no time to think. He bolted out of bed, his feet hitting the cold hardwood floor with a thud. As he rushed toward the door, his mind raced with possibilities. **A robbery? Intruders? But how? The security…** He didn’t have time to dwell on it. His first thought was Melinda.

He sprinted down the hall, his heart pounding louder than the echoing footsteps beneath him. Melinda’s room was at the far end of the east wing, and he cursed himself for putting her so far from his own quarters. When he reached her door, he flung it open without hesitation.

“Melinda!” he hissed in a sharp whisper, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room. “Melinda, wake up!”

She stirred in her bed, groggy and confused. “Sylvester? What’s going on?”

“No time to explain,” he said hurriedly, rushing to her bedside. “There’s someone in the house. We need to get to safety.”

Her eyes widened, the sleep immediately evaporating from her face. She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed, her fear palpable. “What do you mean someone’s in the house? How did they get in?”

“I don’t know,” Sylvester snapped, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the door. “But we can’t stay here. Come on, let’s go.”

They hurried down the hallway, Sylvester leading the way. The house felt too large, too empty. He could hear the faint sounds of movement downstairs—footsteps, the occasional bang of something being knocked over. Whoever was in the house wasn’t being subtle.

When they reached his room, Sylvester locked the door behind them and gestured for Melinda to sit on the bed. His heart was still racing, but he tried to keep his voice calm.

“We’ll stay here until it’s safe,” he said, glancing toward the door. “No one knows this room better than I do. We’ll be fine.”

Melinda sat on the edge of the bed, her hands gripping the bedpost tightly. “Sylvester, who could this be? Do you think it’s Derek?”

Sylvester shook his head, though doubt flickered in his eyes. “It can’t be Derek. He’s still in prison. Whoever this is… it’s someone else.”

“But who?” she pressed, her voice rising with fear. “Who else could want to hurt you like this?”

“I don’t know,” Sylvester said through gritted teeth. His mind raced with possibilities. Derek had his own network of shady associates, but with Derek locked away, none of them had a reason to go after him. His wealth, perhaps? Or was it someone else entirely?

A loud thud from downstairs made them both jump. Melinda gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she looked toward the door.

Sylvester held his breath, listening. The noise seemed to be moving—whoever it was, they were searching the house. He just had to hope they wouldn’t come upstairs. He moved closer to the door, pressing his ear against it, straining to hear.

The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity, each second ticking by with excruciating slowness. Finally, the sounds from below began to fade, and Sylvester exhaled slowly, his muscles relaxing just a fraction.

“I think they’re leaving,” he whispered, turning back to Melinda. “Stay quiet. We’ll give it a few more minutes, just to be sure.”

She nodded, her face pale, but she didn’t say anything. The fear in her eyes mirrored his own.

---

Morning came with the soft glow of the sun filtering through the curtains. Sylvester had barely slept, his body tense and alert for any sign of danger. The intruders had been quiet for hours now, but the lingering dread remained. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they might return.

A soft knock at the door broke the stillness of the morning. Sylvester rose from the chair he had perched on near the door and unlocked it cautiously. Standing in the doorway was Albert, his butler, but something was different about him. His usual composed demeanor had been replaced by visible trembling. His face was pale, and his hands shook as he clasped them in front of him.

“Sir,” Albert stammered, his voice barely a whisper, “I… I need to inform you about what transpired last night.”

Sylvester narrowed his eyes, stepping aside to let Albert in. “What happened?”

Albert swallowed hard, glancing nervously toward Melinda, who sat on the bed, still shaken from the night’s events. “There was a break-in, as you may have already guessed. I— I’m afraid the damage is quite extensive. The back door was completely shattered, and it looks like they tried to force open the safe in your study.”

“Did they take anything?” Sylvester asked, his voice tight.

“No, sir,” Albert replied quickly, “nothing of value appears to be missing. But…” His voice trailed off, his hands trembling more visibly now.

“But what?” Sylvester demanded, his patience wearing thin.

Albert looked down at the floor, as if he couldn’t bear to meet Sylvester’s gaze. “They left something behind, sir. A… a message. Scrawled on the wall in your study.”

Sylvester’s heart skipped a beat. “What kind of message?”

Albert hesitated, his face ashen. “It said, ‘You’re next.’”

A cold chill ran down Sylvester’s spine. He had been expecting something like this ever since the fallout with Derek, but to see it written out so blatantly, so boldly, shook him in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

Melinda gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Sylvester, this can’t be happening. Who would do this?”

Sylvester clenched his jaw, his mind racing. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

---

Later that morning, Sylvester stood in front of the local police station, the sun glaring down on him as he clenched his fists by his side. His gut churned with frustration, but also with a growing sense of dread. He had come here to report the break-in, to do what needed to be done. But deep down, he knew that this wasn’t just a random act of violence.

It wasn’t Derek. It **couldn’t** be Derek. The man was behind bars, locked up tight. But still, the thought gnawed at him. Was it possible Derek had orchestrated something from prison? He had contacts, allies—people willing to do his dirty work for him. But there was no way to be sure.

The officer behind the desk glanced up as Sylvester approached. “Mr. Anders,” he greeted with a curt nod. “What brings you in today?”

Sylvester explained the events of the night, his voice steady but laced with tension. The officer took notes, nodding occasionally as he listened. When Sylvester finished, the officer leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“This is a serious matter,” the officer said, tapping his pen against his notepad. “But as you said, there’s no indication that anything was stolen. The message, however… that’s troubling.”

“I know it is,” Sylvester replied, his jaw tight. “That’s why I’m here. I want this handled. I want the people responsible found.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” the officer assured him, though there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “But with no solid leads, it may take some time.”

Sylvester fought back a surge of frustration. Time wasn’t something he had in abundance. Whoever was behind this had already gotten too close for comfort.

As he turned to leave the station, the officer’s voice stopped him. “Mr. Anders,” he called. Sylvester paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “You mentioned Derek. Do you think he could be involved?”

Sylvester hesitated, his thoughts swirling. It would be easy to blame Derek, to point the finger at the man who had already caused so much damage in his life. But something in his gut told him this was different. This wasn’t Derek’s style—at least, not directly.

“No,” Sylvester said finally, his voice low. “It’s not Derek. He’s in prison. This is someone else.”

The officer nodded, though he didn’t look convinced. “We’ll investigate all possible angles.”

Sylvester nodded curtly and turned to leave, stepping out into the bright morning sun. As he walked toward his car, his thoughts lingered on the message left behind in his study. **You’re next.**

Whoever had broken into his house last night wasn’t done. And Sylvester knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning.