Chapter 4 - The Quarantine of Sterling Manor
By 6:15 PM, the heavy iron gates at the perimeter of the Vance estate were chained shut from the inside.
Outside the high stone walls, the sirens of two Chicago Police Department cruisers were wailing in the distance, their high-pitched screams cutting through the cool evening air. Inside the mansion, the atmosphere was suffocating.
Marcus Vance stood in the formal study, pacing back and forth across a priceless Persian rug. His suit jacket was off, his sleeves rolled up, revealing thick, hairy forearms. Across from him, sitting on a leather sofa with an ice pack pressed to his swollen, crooked nose, was Julian. Blood stained the front of his custom white shirt, turning the cotton stiff and dark.
"The police are at the gate," Marcus said, his voice low and dangerous. "Pendelton is stalling them at the intercom, but we have maybe ten minutes before they break the chains. Where is the boy?"
"Victor has him locked in the upstairs nursery," Julian rasped through his mouth, his voice sounding wet and muffled due to his broken nasal passages. "The kid won't give up the passcode. We tried using his thumbprint while he was sleeping, but he set a secondary alphanumeric pin."
"Did you take the phone?"
"Of course I took the fucking phone!" Julian snarled, dropping the ice pack to reveal his dark, purple-bruised eyes. "It's in the wall safe behind the painting. But if he really synced it to an external server like he said—"
"He's eight years old, Julian!" Marcus slammed his fist onto the mahogany desk, making the brass lamp jump. "He doesn't know how to set up automated cloud scripts! Evelyn set it up for him. She's been turning that kid against us ever since his mother died!"
The heavy oak door of the study opened, and Victor walked in. His face was deathly pale. He locked the door behind him and leaned against the frame.
"Evelyn is in the master bedroom with Mrs. Gable," Victor said quietly. "She's refusing to let the paramedics examine her until the police detectives enter the room. She claims we'll bribe the EMTs to give her a sedative."
"She's paranoid," Julian growled.
"No," Victor said, looking directly at his older brother. "She's strategic. Julian... I saw the angle from the hall before you grabbed the kid. He wasn't standing near the library. He was standing on the mid-landing behind the decorative screen. He had a clear shot of the top steps."
Julian paused. "And?"
"And from that angle," Victor whispered, "it doesn't look like she jumped. It looks like you reached out your hand, and Richard reached out his hand, and she fell right between you. If that footage goes to a grand jury, it doesn't matter what the truth is. It looks like an attempted homicide."
Marcus stopped pacing. He looked at Victor, then turned his gaze toward the dark window overlooking the driveway. Red and blue lights were now flashing through the heavy oak trees outside the perimeter wall.
"Where is Richard?" Marcus asked.
"In the kitchen," Victor replied. "Drinking."
"Get him in here," Marcus commanded. "Now. We need a unified story before those detectives cross the threshold, or all three of us are going to spend the night in Cook County jail."
Downstairs in the kitchen, Richard sat at the island counter, staring at a half-empty bottle of 18-year-old Macallan. His hands were shaking so violently that the ice in his glass chimed against the crystal like tiny silver bells.
The kitchen door opened softly. It wasn't Victor.
It was Evelyn.
She had washed the blood from her face, though the cut near her hairline remained red and raw. She was wearing a thick black cashmere robe wrapped tightly around her frame, her hands tucked deep into the pockets. She walked without a limp. Her posture was erect, her step light and deliberate.
Richard didn't look up. "Did you call them?"
"I didn't have to," Evelyn said softly, leaning against the counter across from him. "Mrs. Gable called them the second you hit the floor. She thinks you're a monster, Richard. Everyone in this house thinks you're a monster."
Richard took a slow, burning gulp of scotch. "You jumped, Evelyn. I saw your eyes. You looked right at me and you stepped backward. You risked the baby's life... you risked our baby's life for a corporate board seat?"
Evelyn stepped closer. She reached out and took the glass of scotch from his hand, setting it gently on the stone counter out of his reach.
"There is no baby, Richard," she whispered.
Richard froze. Slowly, excruciatingly, he raised his head and stared into his wife's face.
"What did you say?" he breathed.
Evelyn reached inside the pocket of her cashmere robe and pulled out a small, flat silicone pad—a professional, medical-grade prosthetic belly, contoured to match her skin tone, complete with fake stretch marks and a weighted gel interior. She placed it quietly on the marble counter between them.
She looked at him with eyes as cold as dead stars.
"I had a miscarriage four months ago," she said, her voice dropping into a flat, terrifying monotone. "The day after your brothers forced my father into signing his estate over to Marcus. I didn't tell you because I knew you'd break under the pressure. I needed four months to build the trap."
Richard stared at the silicone pad on the counter, his mouth opening and closing in soundless horror.
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"You... you're not pregnant?" he gasped. "The baby... there is no baby?"
"There is only accountability, Richard," Evelyn said, leaning down until her lips were inches from his ear. "And tonight, you and your brothers are going to pay for everything."
