Chapter 36 - The Convoy from the Capitol
The hallway outside the visitation room erupted into sudden, sharp activity. Boots clicked against the polished linoleum. Heavy voices echoed through the concrete corridors.
The visitation door swung open, and two men in dark suits stepped inside, followed by an Assistant United States Attorney holding a thick leather folder stamped with the gold seal of the Department of Justice.
"Eleanor Holloway?" the lead prosecutor asked, barely looking at her.
"My attorney is on his way," Eleanor snapped, rising from her seat, trying to summon the terrifying presence that had dominated Cedar County society for four decades. "You have no right to question me without Vance present."
"Mr. Vance Holloway was taken into custody at the Norfolk docks forty minutes ago, Mrs. Holloway," the prosecutor said, his voice flat, completely devoid of drama. "The Coast Guard intercepted three shipping containers registered to his logistics firm. They didn't find timber. They found twelve million dollars in unregistered municipal bearer bonds and the original tax ledgers from your 2018 gubernatorial campaign."
Eleanor looked at the prosecutor, then slowly, stiffly, turned her head back toward me.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The grand illusion that had sustained her—the belief that she was the architect of our family, that we were all just pieces on her gilded chessboard—cracked from crown to root.
"You did this," she whispered, her voice dropping into an unrecognizable, cracked register. "You destroyed your sister's name. You destroyed your family."
"No, Eleanor," I said, standing up and buttoning my coat. "Claire tried to kill me for a car and an inheritance that didn't exist. You brought me a paper cup of coffee and told me my life was worth less than your reputation. You didn't build a family. You built an organized crime syndicate and called it high society."
I picked up my briefcase, nodding to the federal agents.
"Wait!" Eleanor lunged forward, the chain between her handcuffs rattling violently against the steel table. "June! Look at me! You can't let them liquidate the manor! Arthur’s grandfather built Black Oak! The family cemetery is behind the orchard!"
I stopped at the threshold of the iron door, turning my head just enough to catch her wild, terrified reflection in the security glass.
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"I’m having the manor demolished next week, Eleanor," I said, each word landing like an iron spike. "The timber is being returned to the state forest. And as for the cemetery... Arthur had his remains moved to the national cemetery in Culpeper six months before he passed. You've been visiting an empty grave for five years."
The scream that tore from Eleanor’s throat as the heavy steel door slammed shut between us wasn't the sound of an aristocratic matriarch. It was the sound of a woman who had realized, too late, that the dead had spent thirty years digging her grave.
