Chapter 7
Arthur let out a dry, humorless chuckle that held no warmth at all. "Saved it by putting a mortgage on the timberlands and funneling the cash into your personal accounts in the Caymans," the older man said, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer to Richard. "You didn't save the family business, Richard. You turned it into a personal ATM while I spent four years in a county hospital relearning how to walk because you decided a shove out of a second-story window was cheaper than a divorce settlement with my sister." Beatrice let out a sharp gasp, her hands flying to her face as the full, ugly truth of the past settled over her. "A divorce? With... with your sister?" She turned her horrified gaze toward Richard. "You told me she died of the fever in Chicago. You told me she left us behind because she hated this house." Elena reached up and touched the bandage on her temple where Richard’s heavy ring had caught her skin just minutes earlier during the argument in the study. "He lied about everything, Grandmother," Elena said softly, her voice carrying an unshakable resolve. "Mom didn't die in Chicago. She lived in a small rental house thirty miles from here until the day she passed away last month, working two jobs just to keep us away from this toxic house." Richard shrank back against the sideboard, knocking over a crystal water pitcher that shattered loudly against the hardwood floor. Shards of glass scattered across the Persian rug, but nobody moved to clean them up. The illusion of perfection that had governed the household for decades was shattered right along with the glass. "You brought her here to ruin me," Richard hissed, his eyes darting toward the heavy front door as if calculating his chances of a desperate sprint to his car.
