Chapter 3 - The Ghost at the Table
I didn't knock. I slid the titanium master key into the heavy oak deadbolt. It turned with a smooth, heavy click that resonated down the quiet street.
Inside, the entrance foyer was sweltering, thick with the scent of roasted herbs, butter, and spiced wine. The grand dining room table was set for twelve: bone china, antique silver, and crystal flutes catching the warm chandelier light.
Megan sat at the head of the table, ice wrapped in a linen napkin pressed against her left cheek, while Eleanor smoothed her hair, speaking in hushed, soothing tones. Mark was uncorking another bottle of vintage Cabernet, laughing at something his brother-in-law had just said.
"She’s always been unstable, Mark," Eleanor was saying loudly as she poured gravy into a silver boat. "Bringing a child up with no manners. She’s lucky Megan didn't call the police on her for those slaps! You did the right thing, son. A man has to put his real family first."
The heavy front door clicked shut behind us.
The heavy thud of Arthur Vance’s leather dress shoes on the hardwood instantly silenced the room. Mark paused mid-pour, wine spilling over the rim of the glass and staining the white linen runner a deep, bloody red.
Eleanor looked up, her aristocratic scowl already forming. "Mark, did you leave the latch off? Who is—"
Her voice evaporated when I walked through the arched dining entryway.
Lily was wrapped in Zoe’s camel cashmere, her eyes wide, clinging to my neck. Flanking me were Zoe and Arthur Vance, followed by two six-foot-three men who positioned themselves silently at either side of the archway, hands clasped formally in front of them.
Mark dropped the corkscrew. "Chloe? What the hell is this? I told you to go back to the condo! Why did you bring Zoe and Arthur here?"
Megan lowered the ice pack, revealing the bright red welts my palm had left across her face. "Are you insane? You bring your rich friends here to intimidate us? In *my* mother’s house? Get out before I have you arrested for assault!"
"Your mother's house?" Zoe took three slow, measured steps toward the table. The sharp click of her Louboutin heels sounded like ticking time bombs against the antique pine flooring. She looked at Megan with unvarnished disgust. "Megan dear, you haven't worked a legitimate job since 2019. The purse on your lap was bought with Chloe’s credit card rewards. And this brownstone?"
Zoe tossed the thick manila folder directly onto the center of the mahogany table, knocking over a crystal salt shaker.
"This brownstone was purchased in cash four years ago by the Sterling-Vance Trust on behalf of Chloe Adams," Zoe stated, her tone cold enough to freeze water. "Eleanor, you sold this property to satisfy your late husband’s gambling debts. Chloe allowed you to live in the carriage house annex rent-free out of respect for her marriage. But apparently, Mark forgot to mention who actually signs the deed."
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The color drained from Eleanor’s face, leaving her powdery skin the shade of wet flour. "What... what nonsense is this? Mark, what is she talking about?"
Mark looked like a man standing before a firing squad. He wouldn't look at his mother, and he wouldn't look at me.
