Chapter 5 - The Table of Stone
“Brandon?” Vanessa’s voice dropped an octave, tight with sudden, hysterical panic. “Why is it freezing in here?”
The guests stood awkwardly in the cavernous foyer, their breath misting faintly in the cold air. Mrs. Sterling tightened her mink stole around her shoulders, casting an uncomfortable glance around the shadows.
“Just... an issue with the smart home automation!” Brandon stammered, his jovial mask slipping instantly. He hurried to the thermostat, jabbing frantically at the screen. “I had the timers set for five o’clock. Eleanor! Mom! Where are you?”
His voice bounced off the bare walls, echoing back down the staircase like an accusation.
Silence.
“Excuse me for a moment, Carter,” Brandon muttered, forcing a sickeningly artificial chuckle. “Mother must be down in the prep pantry putting the finishing touches on the tenderloin.”
He stormed down the hallway into the open-concept kitchen, his polished dress shoes clicking against the hardwood. Vanessa scurried behind him, her high heels tapping like gunfire.
“Eleanor, where the hell are you—” Brandon’s voice died in his throat the moment he crossed the kitchen threshold.
The kitchen was spotless. Not a pan was simmering on the eight-burner Wolf range. The oven was cold, its glass door clean and vacant. The granite island was completely bare—except for three small items positioned directly under the single pendant light left burning.
Vanessa let out a sharp, choked gasp. “Where is the food? Brandon, where is the damn food? The guests are standing in the hall!”
Brandon rushed to the massive stainless-steel refrigerator and yanked the French doors open.
The shelves were bare. No thirty-pound turkey. No glazed ham. No bowls of garlic mashed potatoes, no green bean casseroles, no platters of freshly baked brioche. Just one lonely, half-empty carton of almond milk and a small jar of mustard.
“What did she do?” Brandon roared, his face flushing crimson as he yanked open the lower freezer drawers. They were empty. He spun around, tearing open the pantry doors. Nothing but empty wire shelves.
“Brandon, look at the island,” Vanessa whispered, her voice trembling with rising terror.
Brandon marched over to the quartz counter.
His eyes locked onto the two jagged pieces of his black debit card. The gold chip was cut cleanly in half. Beside it lay the heavy cream paper with Eleanor’s unmistakable, elegant handwriting.
*Dinner is served.*
*Pay for your own life from now on.*
“What is this?” Brandon spat, his fingers shaking violently as he picked up the severed plastic. “What did the crazy old woman do?”
He grabbed the large manila envelope beneath the card, ripping the flap open. His eyes scanned the legal document inside, jumping from paragraph to paragraph:
*NOTICE TO QUIT AND VACATE... IRREVOCABLE LIVING TRUST OF RICHARD VANCE... ELEANOR VANCE, SOLE EXECUTOR AND TRUSTEE... AUDIT OF UNAUTHORIZED DISBURSEMENTS...*
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“No,” Brandon whispered, the color draining entirely from his face until he looked as gray as the winter sky outside. “No, no, no. This is my house. I’m the head of this family!”
“Brandon!” Vanessa hissed, grabbing his sleeve so hard her acrylic nail broke against his cuff. “Carter Sterling just walked into the dining room! Look at the dining room!”
