The Fake Heiress: Captured By Her Warden

The scream came from the study.

Vesper was in the hallway, heading to the kitchen for water. She froze.

"Father! Breathe! Breathe!" Arthur's voice.

Vesper ran.

She burst into the study. Archibald was on the floor, clutching his chest. His face was turning purple.

"Call 911!" Eleanor was sobbing in the corner.

"He's not breathing!" Arthur yelled.

Vesper pushed past him. She knelt beside the old man. She checked his carotid artery. Nothing.

Cardiac arrest.

She had a choice. Let him die. Chaos would ensue. The police would swarm. Harding would use the confusion to get to her.

Or save him. And reveal that she knew exactly what she was doing.

She ripped Archibald's shirt open. buttons flew across the room.

She interlaced her fingers. She positioned her palms over his sternum.

Push. Push. Push.

"Get the AED!" Vesper shouted. It wasn't a request. It was a command.

The butler scrambled to the wall cabinet.

Vesper compressed the chest. One hundred beats per minute. Two inches deep. She felt the ribs creak and then a distinct crack under her hands. She didn't falter. Perfect control was a luxury. Survival was the goal.

The butler handed her the pads. She slapped them on.

"Clear!"

Zap. Archibald's body arched.

She went back to compressions. Sweat dripped from her nose. Her wounded shoulder screamed in protest.

"Come on, you old bastard," she gritted out.

A gasp. A ragged, wet cough.

Archibald's eyes fluttered open.

The door banged open. Dr. Thorne, the concierge doctor, rushed in with a medical bag.

He saw Vesper. He saw the rhythm of her hands.

"Stop," Thorne said. He checked the pulse. "He's back. Stable."

He looked at Vesper. "Where did you learn to do that? That was... brutally effective."

Vesper sat back on her heels. She wiped the sweat from her forehead. She saw Arthur staring at her. She saw the suspicion.

"I... you learn things on the street," Vesper panted. "When you don't have insurance, you learn to be your own ambulance."

"That wasn't TV," Thorne muttered. "You saved his life, even if you cracked a rib. Most people hesitate."

"Well done," a deep voice said from the doorway.

Harding Bishop walked in. He was wearing a dark suit. He looked like the grim reaper's handsome brother.

He walked over to Vesper. He reached down and took her hand.

"Let me help you up," he said.

He pulled her to her feet. He didn't let go. His thumb rubbed against the inside of her palm. He felt the ridge of tough skin below her fingers. He felt the callous on her trigger finger.

He leaned in close. His breath was warm on her ear.

"Gun calluses," Harding whispered. "Did you do a lot of shooting in the homeless shelter, Cassandra?"

Vesper yanked her hand away. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

"I worked in a kitchen," she lied. "Shoveling ice, scrubbing industrial pans."

Harding smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Of course. I'll have the lab check what kind of scrubbing creates friction patterns consistent with a Sig Sauer P226."

Archibald was loaded onto a stretcher. As they wheeled him out, the old man turned his head. He looked at Vesper.

There was no hatred in his eyes anymore. There was calculation.

Harding pulled out his phone. He dialed a number.

"Forensics," Harding said, staring at Vesper. "Get a team to the study. I want prints from the door handle. Priority one."