Chapter 4 - The Ambush
The footsteps weren't Dad's uneven, dragging shuffle. They were faster, heavier, and completely devoid of hesitation.
"Hide the bag," Marcus hissed, his eyes darting toward the closet. "Now!"
I shoved the canvas bag back into the crawlspace behind the cedar board, kicking the shoe rack back into place just as the brass doorknob jiggled violently from the hallway.
"Chloe? Marcus? Open the door," Uncle Vance's low, gravelly voice cut through the heavy wood.
Marcus shot me a warning look, took a deep breath, and walked over to unlock the door. The moment the latch disengaged, the door swung inward with force, nearly knocking Marcus back onto the bed.
Uncle Vance filled the frame. He was Dad’s younger brother by five years—a retired real estate appraiser with a perpetually stern face, thinning gray hair combed flat against his scalp, and cold, pale eyes that seemed to take inventory of everything they touched. Behind him stood Chloe, her arms crossed over her designer sweater, her eyes dry now, gleaming with sharp anticipation.
"What are you two doing in here?" Vance demanded, his gaze instantly locking onto me. "Your father is downstairs having heart palpitations, Elias. We’re five seconds away from calling an ambulance, and you’re skulking around your sister’s room like a prowler."
"I was looking for the truth," I said evenly, keeping my back to the closet, refusing to shrink under his glare. "And it looks like the truth isn't hard to find."
Chloe scoffed, stepping into the room with theatrical disgust. "The truth? You're a thief, Elias! Dad gave you an entire college fund, he bought your first car, and the minute you fail in the city, you come back here to strip this house clean! What did you do with Grandma’s watch? Did you hide it in my room so you could claim I was lying?"
She walked directly past me toward the closet.
My pulse spiked. She wasn't guessing. She knew exactly where the bag was because she had planned this sequence from the second Marcus walked away from the dining room. She was coming to "discover" the planted evidence in front of Uncle Vance.
"Step away from the closet, Chloe," I warned, stepping directly into her path.
"Get out of my way!" she screamed, her voice hitting that hysterical, piercing pitch designed to carry down the stairwell to my father’s ears. "Uncle Vance, he's threatening me! He's going to hit me!"
"Back off, Elias," Vance said, taking a step forward, his voice hard as iron. He reached into his coat pocket—not for a phone, but for a folded set of legal documents. "Your father gave me temporary power of attorney five minutes ago down at that table. He can't handle the stress. As of right now, I am representing this family's legal interests. Step away from the closet and let your sister show me what you hid."
I looked at Vance. Then I looked at the legal documents in his breast pocket.
Marcus's words echoed in my head: *She's not working alone in this house.*
A sudden, chilling realization washed over me. Uncle Vance wasn't here to keep the peace. The legal documents were already printed. You don't draft a power of attorney in five minutes while an old man is having chest pains downstairs.
"You drafted those papers before I even got here, didn't you, Vance?" I asked, my voice deadly quiet.
Vance’s eyes narrowed slightly, a microscopic flicker of guilt flashing across his weathered face before his mask hardened again. "Don't be ridiculous. Your father’s attorney sent them over earlier this week when Arthur’s health took a turn."
"Arthur's attorney is Mr. Henderson," I countered, taking a slow step toward Vance. "Henderson retired to Florida two months ago. I know, because he called me in Chicago to tell me Dad was updating his trust. Whoever drafted those papers in your pocket, Vance, it wasn't the family attorney."
Chloe’s expression fractured for a split second, replaced by pure venom. "Shut up, Elias! Just shut up!"
She lunged past me, ripping the cedar board away from the bottom of the shoe rack with a loud crack of splintering wood. She dragged the canvas backpack out onto the carpet, zipping it open with a triumphant flourish.
"Look!" Chloe screamed, dumping the contents onto the floor.
The gold Cartier watch clattered against the wood, its crystal face reflecting the chandelier light. Alongside it, the stacks of hundred-dollar bills spilled out across the rug, followed by the courier envelopes and land deeds.
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"You see, Uncle Vance?" Chloe yelled, pointing a trembling finger at the pile. "He stole it all! He was going to rob Dad blind and leave us with nothing!"
Down the hallway, the heavy sound of a cane striking the hardwood floors began to echo, accompanied by my mother’s frantic sobs. Dad was coming up the stairs.
