Chapter 13 - The Estate of Shadows
Three months later.
The morning sun over Blackwood Gorge was sharp, clear, and cold, painting the turning autumn leaves in brilliant shades of crimson, orange, and deep gold.
A black estate wagon pulled up to the high wrought-iron gates of St. Jude-in-the-Pines.
The gates stood wide open. A heavy steel sign hung across the iron bars: PROPERTY OF THE VANCE FAMILY TRUST - UNDER LIQUIDATION.
The wagon parked near the front steps of the empty mansion.
The driver’s door opened, and Arthur—who had been retained by the court-appointed independent trustee to oversee the estate’s dissolution—stepped out. He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door.
Julian Vance stepped out of the car.
He did not use a wheelchair. He did not use crutches. He wore a simple pair of dark jeans, a grey wool sweater, and sturdy leather hiking boots. He held a simple wooden walking cane in his right hand, but he carried his weight easily, his posture straight, his chin lifted against the cool autumn wind.
He walked up the stone steps of the front porch.
The house was completely gutted. The grand furniture, the glittering chandeliers, the oil paintings of long-dead Vance ancestors had all been cataloged, packed into wooden crates, and shipped away to auction houses in New York and London.
The proceeds—over two hundred million dollars—had been placed into an independent medical foundation established in Julian’s name to treat children suffering from Munchausen syndrome by proxy and chemical neuro-abuse.
Julian walked through the echoing, empty entrance hall. His leather boots made a sharp, confident clack-clack-clack against the marble floor.
He reached the double mahogany doors leading to his old bedroom wing on the second floor.
He pushed them open.
The room was completely empty. The four-poster mahogany bed was gone; the IV pole was gone; the shattered window had been replaced with a new, crystal-clear pane of glass that reflected the bright blue autumn sky.
Standing in the center of the room was Special Agent Rivera.
"The final court papers were signed an hour ago in Boston," Rivera said, handing Julian a fountain pen and a leather-bound binder. "You are officially a ward of your father’s sister, Dr. Eleanor Vance. She’s waiting for you at the house in Portland."
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Julian took the pen and signed his name at the bottom of the document: Julian Vance.
His handwriting was no longer the shaky, cramped script of a sedated child. It was bold, sharp, and decisive.
