Chapter 6 - Twenty Minutes to Eternity
"Three million dollars," Rachel shouted down at her kneeling mother, her chest heaving with adrenaline. "You sold the farm for three million dollars, and you think you can keep it?"
"It was my farm," Eleanor whispered, struggling to draw oxygen into her bruised lungs. "Your father and I built it. You abandoned it."
Rachel slammed her hand on the counter again. "I'm your daughter!"
"And I'm your son," Marcus added, adjusting the cuff of his expensive jacket with a sickening nonchalance, as if he hadn't just broken an elderly woman's rib. "We're entitled to our share."
Eleanor looked up from the floor, her eyes sweeping over the two people she had spent her entire life protecting. The irony was suffocating. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every dollar she had scraped together to give them a head start in life had only bred monsters. They didn't see a mother in pain; they saw an obstacle in their path to easy wealth.
"I already told you," Eleanor said through clenched teeth, wincing as a spasm of pain shot through her side. "The money isn't available."
Rachel’s face twisted into a mask of pure venom. "You mean you won't give it to us."
Marcus crouched down beside her, invading her space, smelling of rain and bitter desperation. "Stop playing games, Mom. Bank name. Account number. Password. Give it to us now, and we'll call an ambulance. If not... well, accidents happen in houses every day."
Eleanor wiped a streak of blood from her chin with the back of her hand and stayed silent.
Rachel kicked an apple across the floor, watching it roll toward the refrigerator. "She thinks she's smarter than us."
Marcus pulled a folded document from inside his jacket pocket. It was the power of attorney. Eleanor caught a glimpse of the signature line—her name had been crudely, clumsily forged.
For the first time since the assault began, Eleanor smiled. It was a faint, chilling smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Marcus mistook it for surrender or fear. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You have twenty minutes to cooperate before things get really unpleasant."
Eleanor looked him straight in the eyes, unblinking. "No," she whispered.
"You have twenty minutes," Marcus repeated, standing up. He walked over to the kitchen island, poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot, and took a slow sip. Rachel pulled out her phone, casually scrolling through social media as if waiting for a delivery driver.
They were completely, utterly confident. They believed they held all the cards. They believed their mother was broken, cornered, and helpless.
What they didn't know was that down at the downtown precinct and on Arthur Pendelton’s private terminal, a silent alarm had just flashed red. A live audio-video feed was streaming in crystal-clear HD, capturing every word, every threat, every drop of blood, and every arrogant smirk.
Five minutes passed. The kitchen was dead silent except for the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
"Tick tock, Mom," Marcus warned, checking his gold watch—bought with money Eleanor had given him for a fake business venture a year ago. "Fifteen minutes left before I stop asking nicely."
"The notary who stamped that forged document," Eleanor breathed out, fighting the agonizing pressure in her chest, "he's going to go to prison, too."
Marcus laughed, though the sound lacked its previous warmth. "Dave? No, he won't. He already got his ten thousand dollar cut. He'll swear you signed it in front of him in a moment of total clarity."
Rachel didn't even look up from her screen. "Just give it up, Mom. You're old. You're tired. What are you even going to do with three million dollars? We have lives to live. I'm looking at a villa in Tuscany next month."
Eleanor kept her eyes fixed on the floor, perfectly positioning her face so the camera above the pantry caught every angle, every detail of the forged document Marcus was holding, and every smirk on their faces.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
"Time's up," Marcus said coldly, setting his coffee mug down with a sharp clink on the counter and stepping toward Eleanor again. "Last chance. The account details, or—"
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Before he could finish his sentence, a sound pierced the morning air, shattering the tense silence of the suburban neighborhood.
Sirens. Faint at first, rising from down the street, but growing exponentially louder with every passing second. And they weren't stopping.
