Chapter 6 - The Quarantine of Blackwood
By 3:15 AM, the grand foyer of Blackwood Manor was bathed in the harsh, flashing red and blue strobes of six state police cruisers parked along the sweeping driveway.
Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the bottom of the grand oak staircase, sealing off the shattered white balusters and the dark, dried pool of blood on the oriental rug. Two forensics technicians in white suits were kneeling beside Julian’s covered body, taking high-resolution flash photographs that illuminated the dark wood in brief, blinding bursts.
In the formal library, Edward sat on a wooden chair, his hands cuffed behind his back, guarded by two tall state troopers. His head was bowed, his face grey, his body shivering uncontrollably despite the heavy wool blanket an officer had draped over his shoulders. He was no longer the arrogant heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire; he was a broken, terrified boy facing twenty years to life for reckless homicide and felony assault.
In the corner of the room, Victoria was hysterical, her shriek echoing off the high book-lined walls as two female officers restrained her from running toward the foyer.
"It was an accident!" Victoria screamed, her hair wild, her diamonds disheveled. "He didn't mean to shove him! It was the servant! She baited him! She made him pull the gun!"
Detective Sarah Vance stood near the cold fireplace, holding a transparent evidence bag containing the stainless-steel hunting pistol. She looked at Victoria with a cold, unyielding disgust.
"Mrs. Blackwood," Detective Vance said flatly, "your son walked down that staircase with a loaded firearm, aimed it at an unarmed civilian, and engaged in a physical altercation that resulted in your husband's death. Every word was recorded on the estate's internal security feed."
Victoria froze. "What... what security feed? Julian turned off the cameras at midnight!"
"He turned off the primary server in his office," Marcus Vance said, stepping out from the shadows near the window. He was holding a tablet displaying a live, high-definition digital stream. "He didn't know that my mother had a secondary, independent cloud system installed in the foyer three weeks ago when your husband began threatening her."
Victoria stared at Marcus, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly, her last desperate defense crumbling into ash.
Outside the library doors, in the quiet corridor, Margaret stood beside Arthur’s wheelchair.
The old patriarch looked remarkably calm, his frail hand resting over Margaret’s wrist. The arrival of the police, the death of his eldest son, the arrest of his grandson—none of it seemed to shock him. It was as if he had foreseen every piece of this violent, tragic mosaic thirty years ago.
"Is it over, Arthur?" Margaret whispered, watching the forensic officers carry a long black body bag out through the front double doors.
"No, Margaret," Arthur whispered back, his voice thin as a thread. "The fire is out, but the ashes are still hot. Marcus needs to secure the board seats before the morning news hits Wall Street."
"He already has them, Arthur," Margaret said softly. "The board met via an emergency video conference thirty minutes ago. With Julian dead and Marcus holding forty percent of the voting shares via your trust transfer, they elected him interim chairman of the board."
Arthur looked up at her, a faint, genuine smile touching his thin lips for the first time in decades.
"A Vance running Blackwood Syndicate," Arthur rasped, letting out a weak, rattling laugh. "My father must be turning in his grave."
May you like
"He's not running Blackwood, Arthur," Margaret said gently, leaning down to adjust his wool blanket. "He's dismantling it. The shipping routes are being transferred to a public port authority. The profits are going into housing trusts for domestic violence survivors."
Arthur closed his eyes, taking a long, slow breath. "Good... good. Let the sea take the rest."
