Chapter 4: The Chinese Auction 

The gavel didn't just strike the block; it echoed off the mahogany wainscoting like a deadbolt sliding home, locking Marcus into a room full of people who smelled like old money and new secrets. He adjusted his silk tie, the knot suddenly feeling like a noose. The grand ballroom of the Cypress Bend Country Club was a sea of shimmering sequins and stiff tuxedos, but Marcus saw it for what it was: a shark tank where the water was mostly gin and judgment.

He stood by the buffet line, more for the tactical advantage of the wall at his back than an interest in the lukewarm spanakopita. To his left, the auctioneer—a man named Halloway whose voice sounded like gravel being shaken in a velvet bag—was warming up the crowd for the "Chinese Auction" portion of the evening. It was a local tradition, a bizarre hybrid of a raffle and a high-stakes poker game where you didn’t just bid money; you bid influence.

"You look like you're bracing for impact, Marcus."

He didn't need to turn to know the voice. It carried the polished, rhythmic cadence of the Bayou’s elite. Julian Vane stepped into his periphery, smelling of expensive sandalwood and the kind of audacity that only comes with a seven-figure inheritance. Julian didn’t just hold a champagne flute; he wielded it.

"Just taking it in, Julian," Marcus replied, his voice flat, a stark contrast to Julian’s melodic drawl. "I haven't been back for the auction in fifteen years. I’d forgotten how much everyone enjoys watching each other lose."

Julian chuckled, a soft, dry sound. "It’s not about losing. It’s about the cost of entry. Look at them." He gestured with a slight tilt of his chin toward the center of the room, where the town’s power players were huddled around the raffle drums. "They aren't buying chances on a week in Tuscany or a vintage Rolex. They’re buying the right to be the one who didn't blink."

Marcus watched his father, Silas, standing near the podium. Silas was the sun that this particular solar system revolved around, draped in a tuxedo that probably cost more than Marcus's first car. Silas catch Marcus’s eye and offered a microscopic nod—a command, not a greeting.

"The third item tonight," Halloway announced, his voice booming through the speakers, "is the development rights for the East Marsh parcel. A legacy piece, donated by the Sterling estate."

A ripple of genuine tension moved through the room. The East Marsh was the last piece of untouched shoreline in Cypress Bend. It was the linchpin for the resort project Marcus knew his father was obsessed with—and the very project Marcus had been quietly cautioned against by the few allies he had left in town.

Marcus felt Julian’s eyes on him. "Your father wants that dirt, Marcus. He wants it bad enough to bleed for it. The question is, are you here to help him hold the knife, or are you the lamb?"

"I'm the one who reads the fine print, Julian. You should know that by now." Marcus stepped away from the buffet, moving toward the raffle drums. 

The "Chinese Auction" at Cypress Bend worked on a tiered ticket system. You bought a book of tickets, but you didn't just drop them in a bucket. You had to place them in the presence of the "Warden"—a role held tonight by Evelyn Reed, the town’s unofficial historian and its most dangerous gossip.

Marcus approached the table where Evelyn sat, her white hair piled high like a winter cloud. She watched him behind cat-eye glasses that caught the light.

"Marcus Thorne," she whispered, her voice a sharp contrast to the roar of the room. "The prodigal son returns with his pockets full of city money."

"Just here to support the library fund, Evelyn," Marcus said, pulling a strip of gold tickets from his jacket pocket.

"Is that what we're calling it this year?" She leaned in, the scent of lavender and peppermint hitting him. "Your father put forty tickets in the East Marsh drum. He’s been glaring at the container for twenty minutes like he can melt the paper with his mind. Why haven't you put yours in?"

Marcus looked at the clear acrylic drum. It was nearly three-quarters full. Silas had overplayed his hand, making a public show of his dominance. It was a classic Thorne move: shock and awe. 

"Because I’m not interested in the marsh," Marcus said, his voice loud enough for the onlookers to hear. "I’m interested in the clock."

He walked past the marsh drum and dropped his entire book of tickets into a smaller, nearly empty container for a Victorian-era grandfather clock that sat shadowed in the corner. The room went silent for a heartbeat. The clock was a relic, a beautiful but broken piece of furniture that no one wanted to haul home.

Silas’s jaw tightened. From across the room, the patriarch’s eyes turned into flint. Marcus felt a cold shiver of satisfaction. He didn’t want the marsh, but he wanted Silas to know he wasn't playing the game by the old rules.

"A bold choice," a new voice drifted in. Elena moved through the crowd like smoke, her dark green gown shimmering with every step. She stood beside Marcus, looking at the tickets floating in the clock drum. "That clock hasn't chimed since the flood of '98. It’s dead weight, Marcus."

"I like things that don't talk back," Marcus said, looking at her. Elena was the only person in this room who didn't feel like a caricature. Her eyes were weary, mirroring his own. 

"Everything in this town talks back eventually," she said softly. "Even the silence. You shouldn't have snubbed your father’s lot. He takes it as a personal insult when people don't want what he wants."

"He'll survive," Marcus said. "I'm more interested in why you haven't bid on anything."

Elena looked down at her empty hands. "I'm the prize, Marcus. Didn't you hear? My family's debt is the main event. We just don't put tickets in a bucket for that. We do it over dinner and handshakes in the cigar room."

Before Marcus could respond, Halloway’s gavel banged again. "Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your seats. The drawing for the East Marsh will begin."

The crowd shifted, a mass of silk and wool migrating toward the stage. Marcus and Elena were pushed toward the edges. Silas took his seat in the front row, his back rigid. 

Halloway reached into the drum, swirling the tickets with a theatrical flourish. The room held its breath. This wasn't just charity; this was the future of the town’s economy. If Silas won, the resort moved forward. If someone else won—the few preservationists or rival developers—the project stalled.

Halloway pulled a ticket. He squinted at the name written on the back.

"The winner of the East Marsh development rights is... The Cypress Trust."

A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. The Cypress Trust was a shell company. No one knew who owned it. Silas stood up, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. He looked around the room, his eyes searching for the traitor.

Marcus felt a surge of adrenaline. Someone had outmaneuvered Silas Thorne in his own backyard. He looked at Julian, who was smiling into his champagne. He looked at Evelyn, who looked delighted.

"Who is the Trust?" Marcus whispered to Elena.

She was pale, her hand gripping her clutch until her knuckles turned white. "I don't know," she breathed. "But look at your father."

Silas wasn't looking at the auctioneer anymore. He was looking directly at Marcus. The fury in his eyes was replaced by something sharper, something more clinical. He believed Marcus was the one behind the Trust. He believed his own son had just gutted his legacy in front of the entire parish.

Halloway, sensing the shift in the room's temperature, moved quickly to the next item. "And now, for the Thorne-donated Victorian timepiece..."

He reached into the small drum where Marcus’s tickets sat. He pulled one. He didn't even have to read it carefully.

"Marcus Thorne."

A few polite, hollow claps followed. Marcus didn't move. He felt the weight of the room’s suspicion. He had won a broken clock while his father lost a kingdom.

"Congratulations," Julian said, appearing at Marcus’s elbow again. "You got exactly what you asked for. A piece of history that doesn't work."

"It'll work," Marcus said, his voice low and dangerous. "I just have to find out what’s stuck in the gears."

The dinner bell rang, signaling the end of the auction and the start of the formal banquet. As the crowd began to move toward the dining hall, Silas intercepted Marcus. The older man smelled of scotch and tobacco, a scent Marcus had associated with fear for most of his life.

"A clever play, Marcus," Silas said, his voice a low hiss. "Targeting the clock to distract the room while your proxies bought the marsh from under me."

"I didn't buy the marsh, Silas. I don't have proxies."

"Don't lie to me. Not tonight. Not in this house." Silas stepped closer, his shadow looming over Marcus. "You think you can come back here and dismantle what I’ve built? You think you’re the only one who knows how to hide money?"

"I'm telling you, I had nothing to do with the Trust."

Silas leaned in, his eyes narrowed to slits. "Then you’re even more of a fool than I thought. Because if it wasn't you, then there’s a ghost in this town, Marcus. And ghosts are much harder to kill than sons."

Silas turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Marcus standing in the thinning crowd. The ballroom, once bright and celebratory, now felt cavernous and cold.

Elena was gone. Julian had drifted toward the bar. Marcus stood alone by the grandfather clock, which had been moved to the side of the stage. He reached out and touched the dark, polished wood. It was cold to the touch. He opened the glass face and touched the minute hand. It was frozen at twelve.

He looked down at the base of the clock and noticed a small, white sliver of paper wedged into the seam of the door. He knelt, shielding his movements from the remaining guests, and pulled it out.

It wasn't a raffle ticket.

It was a handwritten note, the ink slightly smudged.

*The East Marsh isn’t the only thing buried in the mud. Meet me at the old pier at midnight if you want to know what your father is really building.*

Marcus crumpled the note in his fist. He looked up and saw Evelyn Reed watching him from across the room. She didn't smile. She didn't wave. She simply picked up her purse and walked toward the exit.

The evening was supposed to be a homecoming, a way to reintegrate into the life he had fled. But as Marcus watched the last of the elite disappear into the dining hall, he realized the auction hadn't been about charity at all. It was a roll call.

He checked his watch. 10:30 PM.

He had ninety minutes to decide if he was a Thorne or a witness.

Marcus walked out of the ballroom, ignoring the calls for dinner. He headed for the cloakroom, retrieved his coat, and stepped out into the humid Louisiana night. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and decaying vegetation. 

As he reached his car, a black sedan pulled up alongside him. The window rolled down just an inch.

"You should have stayed in the city, Marcus," a voice said—distorted, perhaps by a device or just a muffled throat. "The clock is ticking, but not for you."

The car sped off before Marcus could see the driver. He stood in the gravel parking lot, the sound of the receding engine mixing with the rhythmic pulse of the cicadas. 

He didn't go to his car. Instead, he started walking toward the tree line, toward the path that led to the river. The "Trust" had the marsh, Silas had his rage, and Marcus had a broken clock and a death threat.

It was the most honest he’d felt since he arrived.

He reached the edge of the club’s manicured lawn, where the light of the chandeliers couldn't reach. The shadows of the cypress trees stretched out like long, skeletal fingers. He looked back at the clubhouse, the windows glowing with a warm, deceptive light. Inside, they were eating steak and drinking Bordeaux, toasted to a future that was currently being sold off in pieces.

Marcus reached into his pocket and felt the crumpled note. He thought of Elena’s terrified face, the way she had looked at the empty drum. She knew something. Or she was part of it. In Cypress Bend, those two things were rarely mutually exclusive.

He began to run, his dress shoes slipping on the damp grass, heading toward the water where the secrets were kept.

Behind him, in the silent ballroom, the Victorian clock suddenly groaned. The heavy iron weights shifted, the internal gears grinding against years of rust and dust. With a violent, metallic snap, the pendulum swung once.

The clock struck thirteen. 

The sound didn't carry to the dining room, and it didn't reach Marcus in the woods, but in the hollow chamber of the ballroom, it sounded like a scream. 

Marcus hit the edge of the old wooden pier, the boards groaning under his weight. The river was a black ribbon of glass, reflecting nothing. He scanned the darkness, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"I'm here!" he called out, his voice swallowed by the fog rising off the water.

There was no answer, only the sound of the water lapping against the pilings. Then, from the darkness further down the pier, a flashlight flickered twice. 

Marcus moved toward the light, his hand gripping the railing. As he got closer, he saw a figure huddled against a piling. It wasn't Evelyn. It wasn't Elena.

It was Halloway, the auctioneer. He was slumped over, his tuxedo shirt stained a deep, blooming crimson that looked black in the moonlight. He held a small, leather-bound ledger in his lap, his fingers locked around it in a death grip.

Marcus knelt beside him, checking for a pulse he knew he wouldn't find. Halloway’s eyes were open, staring at the stars, reflecting a sky he’d never see again.

Marcus reached for the ledger, but as he pulled it free, a heavy footfall sounded on the wood behind him. He spun around, the ledger tucked under his arm, but the pier was empty.

At least, it looked empty.

Then he saw it—the glint of a rifle scope from the balcony of the clubhouse, half a mile away.

The first shot didn't hit Marcus. It hit the wooden piling inches from his head, sending a spray of splinters into his cheek.

He didn't think. He dove into the freezing, brackish water of the Bayou, the weight of the ledger pulling him down into the dark.