Chapter 8
Arthur stepped deliberately into the path between Richard and the hallway, effectively cutting off any route of escape. He didn't block him with violence; he simply stood there with the quiet, immovable presence of a mountain range. "I didn't bring her here to ruin you, Richard. You did that all on your own the moment you decided human lives were just lines on a balance sheet," Arthur said, resting his hand on the cover of the leather ledger. "The state police are already reviewing the documents. The original filing from the probate court in nineteen-ninety-nine was flagged by an auditor who noticed the discrepancy in the notary seals three weeks ago." Richard’s knees buckled slightly, and he reached out to steady himself against the edge of the mahogany table, his pristine black suit now rumpled and stained with dust from the floor. "The police?" he choked out. "You went straight to the authorities? We could have settled this like family. We could have made an arrangement." "Family," Beatrice repeated the word as if it tasted like ash in her mouth. She looked down at the diamond rings adorning her withered fingers—gems bought with dividends from a stolen legacy. Slowly, with trembling motions, she began to slide the largest ring off her knuckle, placing it with a sharp clink onto the polished wood of the table. "I wore these for forty years believing I was the matriarch of an honest house," the old woman whispered, her voice cracking with a profound, desolate grief. "Every stone, every dinner party, every charitable donation... all built on a foundation of bones and lies."
