Chapter 2 - THE HOUSE ON THE HILL
Voss Hill rose above the southern edge of Hartwell County like a monument to arrogance.
While the rest of the county struggled through bad hay seasons and rising equipment costs, Warren Voss had built a thirty-acre estate behind forged-iron gates. His family owned the local bank, half the commercial rentals in town, and three seats on the county development board.
His son, Daniel, was a polished golden boy. Custom suits, bright white smile, expensive German sports cars. When Daniel first started coming around my farm three years ago to court Claire, folks told me I ought to feel lucky. A Voss marrying a Reed.
I had kept my mouth shut. But I remembered the way Daniel looked at my worn boots when he stood on my porch. He looked at me the way a man looks at a stray dog—hoping it won't touch his clothes.
I turned my truck off the main road and drove up the long, winding asphalt driveway of the Voss estate. The gates were locked, but I didn't press the intercom. I simply shifted into low gear, pressed the gas, and drove my heavy steel front bumper straight through the latch.
The iron doors gave way with a sharp CRACK, swinging wildly into the darkness.
I parked right in front of the main entrance—a towering two-story glass and granite mansion glowing with soft landscape lights. I turned off the ignition, grabbed the wooden bat from the passenger seat, and stepped out into the night air.
My boots echoed loud against the polished flagstone steps.
I didn't knock. I didn't ring the bell. I took a deep breath, raised the heavy ash bat, and drove the barrel directly into the brass door handle and custom lock casing.
THUD! THUD!
The heavy mahogany door splattered splinters, the latch shattering into pieces. I kicked the door open and stepped into the grand foyer.
The house smelled of expensive cologne, Italian marble, and fresh polish. A sweeping curved staircase led up to the second floor.
A moment later, a figure appeared at the top of the stairs, tying the belt of a dark silk robe around his waist.
Daniel Voss.
He looked down at me, his hair slightly disheveled, a smug, relaxed smirk spreading across his handsome face. He thought Claire had crawled back in the dark. He thought he was about to receive an apology.
"Finally," Daniel drawled, descending the stairs with slow, arrogant strides. "Did Claire send Daddy to beg? Because I told her, if she wants back in, she sleeps in the guest house tonight—"
He stopped dead three steps from the bottom.
His eyes had landed on the ash bat held loosely in my right hand, its wood stained dark near the barrel. He saw my boots, covered in the same driveway mud where he had thrown my daughter.
The smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden flicker of uncertainty.
"No," I said quietly, my voice ringing flat against the high marble ceilings.
I took one slow step forward.
"I came to hear your confession."
Daniel swallowed, taking a half-step back up the stairs. "You're off your rocker, old man. Get the hell out of my house before I call the police."
"You broke her wrist," I said.
"She was being hysterical!" Daniel snapped, trying to regain his posture, his voice rising in anger. "She doesn't know her place! She thinks because she's married to me she can question where I spend my nights! I gave her a luxury life, Sam! I bought her clothes, I put her in this house! And she talks back to me like she's my equal?!"
"She's my daughter," I said softly.
I raised the bat, pointing the tip directly at his chest.
Before Daniel could speak, a shadow moved in the grand archway leading to the study.
Heavy, slow footsteps sounded against the marble floor. A tall, silver-haired man in a navy wool dressing gown stepped into the light, holding a crystal glass of whiskey in one hand.
May you like
Warren Voss.
"Samuel..." Warren said, his voice deep, smooth, and laced with forty years of absolute authority. "Put the bat down."
