Chapter 3 - The Uninvited Summoning
The text message that went out through Arthur Vance’s office that afternoon was framed with the cold, unyielding precision of an official subpoena, even though it came under the guise of an "Urgent Holloway Family Estate Clarification."
By eight that evening, my phone was ringing incessantly.
First came the calls from Janice. Three of them in twenty minutes. When Samuel refused to pick up, the voicemail notifications flashed on his screen. I sat beside him on the sofa, holding a cup of untouched tea, while Fiona slept down the hall, exhausted from days of hushed, tense arguments she wasn't supposed to hear.
Samuel hit speakerphone on the third message.
Janice’s voice crackled through the tiny speaker, high-pitched, dripping with theatrical exasperation. *"Samuel, what is this nonsense your grandmother's lawyer is sending around? Arthur Vance? That old fossil hasn't handled Holloway business in ten years. Your father is livid. If this is Eleanor’s way of retaliating because we asked for simple transparency, you are making a grave mistake. You bring that child and your wife to our house tonight, apologize to your father, and we can cancel this circus tomorrow. Call me immediately!"*
Samuel stared at the phone. For twenty-eight years, that voice had commanded his life. Janice had dictated his college major, had attempted to choose his career, had sneered at our modest wedding, and had spent eight years treating Fiona like an inconvenient guest at family gatherings. Whenever Fiona fell down, Janice looked away. Whenever Fiona brought home straight A's, Janice reminded everyone that Samuel had been reading at a tenth-grade level by age six.
"She’s scared," Samuel said quietly. The tremor that had plagued his hands since Christmas dinner was gone. In its place was something cold, solid, and immovable.
"She doesn't know what's coming," I replied.
"Good." He set the phone facedown on the coffee table. "Let her sweat until morning."
The next morning broke clear and biting. The frost clung to the windshield like powdered glass as Samuel and I drove into the city center. We had arranged for my sister to keep Fiona for the day. Before leaving, Fiona had hugged Samuel around the neck, whispering, *"Daddy, are you mad at me because I don't look like Grandma?"*
Samuel had held her so tightly I thought his ribs would crack. *"Fiona,"* he had told her, looking straight into her eyes, *"you have my grandmother’s stubborn chin, your mother’s kind heart, and you are my whole world. Don’t you ever let anyone make you doubt who you belong to."*
That memory sat like armor across Samuel's shoulders as we stepped out of the elevator onto the fourteenth floor of the law firm.
The reception lobby was already full of tension. Sitting along the leather sofa were Gerald, Janice, and Samuel’s older brother, Richard. Richard was the family golden boy—a thirty-four-year-old financial analyst who lived in a luxury downtown condo paid for largely through "advances" Gerald had funneled him over the years.
Janice was pacing near the water cooler, dressed in her signature houndstooth coat, her gold jewelry clinking loudly against her manicured wrists. When the elevator doors opened and Samuel and I walked out, she snapped around.
"Well, look who finally decided to show up," Janice hissed, marching toward us. "Samuel, do you have any idea what kind of humiliation this is? Arthur Vance refused to give your father the agenda! He claims your grandmother invoked a private consultation clause. What lies did you poison her with yesterday?"
Gerald didn't stand up. He sat with his cane between his knees, his jaw set in a hard, resentful scowl. "You’ve gone too far this time, Samuel," Gerald barked, his voice echoing across the quiet reception hall. "Allowing your wife to run to an ailing ninety-year-old woman to manipulate her sympathies because your pride was wounded? A simple cheek swab would have settled this quietly. But no—you had to turn this into a spectacle."
"A spectacle?" Samuel stopped two feet from his father. "You called my daughter a bastard in front of twelve people on Christmas night, Dad. You told me to check my wife’s loyalty before you cut another check for her future. You made Fiona cry until she threw up."
"It was a pragmatic question regarding family heritage!" Richard chimed in smoothly, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. "Come on, Sam. Be a man about it. If there’s nothing to hide, you take the test, clear Eleanor’s name, and we all move on. Why drag Vance into this unless someone’s terrified of the truth?"
The heavy oak doors at the end of the hall swung open before Samuel could answer.
Arthur Vance stood in the threshold, an imposing silhouette against the morning light flooding his office. Beside him, sitting upright in an antique armchair with her hands resting on the silver crook of her walking stick, was Agnes Holloway.
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"The conference room is ready," Arthur said, his voice ringing with cold authority. "Please enter. And leave your arrogance in the hallway, Gerald. You're going to need all the humility you can muster."
***
