Chapter 8 - The Traitor in the Family
The standoff turned electric. Sterling’s private security guards backpedaled toward their van, completely unwilling to get into a brawl with a dozen commercial fishermen whose grip strength came from forty years of hauling iron lobster cages from freezing water.
"This is an unlawful assembly!" Sterling hissed, pulling out his phone again. "I will have every boat in your cooperative seized for interference with commercial enterprise!"
"Try it, Dick," Red replied with a grin that showed two gold teeth. "My cousin is the harbor master, and my sister runs the fuel dock. If your survey boats try to put so much as a depth-finder into this cove, they'll find their props wrapped in five hundred fathoms of steel cable before they hit the channel."
Vance stepped between them, his voice razor-sharp. "Mr. Sterling, you have ten minutes to remove your personnel from this property. If they are not gone by 10:45, I will present Judge Harrison with this time-stamped video recording of you explicitly threatening to demolish a protected historic estate while an ex parte motion is pending."
Vance held up his smartphone, which had been recording quietly from his breast pocket the entire time.
Sterling’s eyes narrowed into slits. He knew when a play had failed. He was a shark, but sharks don't fight when the current turns against them; they circle back when the water is murky.
"Jackson," Sterling said, his voice flat and dismissive. "Get in the truck."
"Wait, Richard!" Jackson begged, dropping the crowbar with a clatter. "We can't leave! If we leave, Carter takes the house! We lose everything!"
Sterling didn't even look back at his new son-in-law. "You already lost, Jackson. The only question now is whether Brooke files for an annulment before or after the bankruptcy court freezes your credit."
Sterling climbed into his vehicle, slammed the door, and reversed sharply, his tires spinning on the gravel as the security van followed suit. The fishermen parted just enough to let them squeeze past, jeering and banging their wrenches against the truck beds as Sterling retreated down the peninsula.
Jackson stood alone on the cedar porch. The golden boy had never looked so small.
Before he could run to his truck, another car came speeding down the driveway—a white sedan that skidded to a halt near the gate.
My mother got out.
She looked ten years older than she had at the wedding. Her makeup was smudged, her hair unkempt, and her hands were trembling violently as she clutched an oversized leather handbag.
"Carter!" she cried, stumbling toward me across the lawn. "Carter, you have to stop this! You have to talk to Marcus! Tell him to withdraw the disinheritance!"
I looked at her, and for the first time in my life, I felt no guilt. The endless cycle of trying to earn her love by taking Jackson’s abuse had snapped cleanly in two.
"You gave Sterling my medical records, Mom," I said, my voice dead and cold.
She stopped dead, her face twisting into a mask of desperate rationalization. "Jackson was going to prison, Carter! You don't understand what he did! He borrowed four hundred thousand dollars against Arthur’s business accounts six months ago! He told them Arthur approved it! If Sterling doesn't get this land, the bank will audit the estate and they’ll find the forged signatures!"
"And you signed them with him," I said.
My mother collapsed onto her knees right there in the damp clover. "He’s your brother! You were always the strong one, Carter! You could always take care of yourself! Jackson needs this! Without this, he’s nothing!"
"He is nothing because you made him that way," I said. "You spent twenty-five years teaching him that rules were for other people. That I was just a spare tire to keep his car on the road."
I looked up at Jackson, who was standing on the porch, staring at our mother kneeling in the mud. There was no remorse in his eyes—only pure, venomous hatred.
May you like
"Get off my property, Jackson," I told him. "Both of you. If you come back, I won't call Vance. I'll let Red handle you."
Jackson didn't say a word. He grabbed his coat, stepped over the crowbar, and walked down the path without helping our mother up. He got into his truck, slammed the door, and tore through the lawn, spraying dirt and mud over our mother’s dress as he sped away toward the highway.
