Chapter 6 - The Ambush
Through the glass panes of the greenhouse, I watched my father’s gleaming charcoal-gray Ford F-250 slide to a halt beside my Honda, kicking up a rooster tail of gray dust and dry pine needles.
The driver's door flew open, and Richard Harper stepped down. He was a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man of fifty-four who carried himself with the perpetual swagger of a high school quarterback who had peaked thirty years ago. Right behind him, the passenger doors slammed, and out stepped my sister Chloe and my aunt Beatrice.
Chloe was clutching her designer handbag like a shield, wearing oversized sunglasses despite the overcast sky, her face contorted in an expression of disgust at the dirt driveway. Aunt Beatrice, Dad’s older sister, had her arms crossed tightly over a fur-trimmed down coat, looking around the homestead as if she were surveying a landfill.
"Stay here, Lucas," Grandma said, reaching for her walking cane.
"No way," I replied, stepping in front of her. "I'm not letting them yell at you."
We walked out of the greenhouse together into the biting mountain wind.
Dad saw me first. His eyes narrowed, and he marched toward the porch with heavy, aggressive strides, pointing a thick finger directly at my face.
"Lucas! You little punk!" Dad barked, his voice booming across the yard. "You've got a lot of nerve ignoring my calls! What kind of game are you playing?"
"Hello, Richard," Grandma Evelyn said, her voice cutting through his roar with razor-sharp composure. "You didn't call ahead. I don't recall inviting you for tea."
Dad barely glanced at her. "Stay out of this, Ma. This is between me and my son." He stepped within two feet of me, smelling of stale coffee and expensive aftershave. "Chloe saw you walking out of the executive wealth building on Canyon Boulevard with a branch director. And your mother just texted Beatrice hysterically crying about some wire transfer! Where did you get that kind of money? Did you take out a predatory loan against Ma's property? Did you forge her deed?"
Chloe sneered from behind him. "We know you've been drowning in debt from that useless graphic design degree, Lucas. Don't play dumb. The only way someone like you gets into that office is by doing something fraudulent."
"Or," Aunt Beatrice chimed in, adjusting her glasses with a venomous smirk, "he's taking advantage of our mother's deteriorating mental state. We all saw what happened at Christmas! Evelyn is handing out imaginary millions on scrap paper. If you coerced her into signing real legal papers behind our backs, Lucas, you're going to prison!"
I stood perfectly still, looking at the three of them. The absolute arrogance, the utter lack of basic decency or concern for Grandma was breathtaking.
"I didn't take out a loan," I said calmly.
"Then where did you get fifty grand to send to Sarah?!" Dad yelled, his face turning an angry crimson. "Answer me!"
"I deposited Grandma's Christmas check," I said.
The silence that followed was absolute.
The wind rustled through the dry pine branches above the roof. A crow cawed from the barn weather vane.
Dad blinked once. Twice. Then he threw his head back and let out a harsh, mocking bark of laughter.
"You deposited... the check?!" Dad wheezed, shaking his head at Beatrice. "Did you hear this idiot? He actually took that piece of toilet paper to a bank! God, you're more pathetic than I thought! Did they laugh you out of the building? Is that why Collins escorted you to his office—to call the state mental asylum?"
"It cleared, Dad," I said.
His laughter died instantly, choking off in his throat.
"What did you say?" Dad demanded, his voice dropping an octave.
May you like
"The check cleared," I repeated, each word deliberate and clear. "The funds arrived from Bank Julius Baer in Zurich. The account was opened in 1984 by Grandpa Arthur. All six million dollars are currently sitting in an escrow portfolio under my name."
***
