Chapter 35 - The Return of the Ghost
I didn't open the door. I walked to the narrow sidelight window, pulling the heavy lace curtain aside by an inch.
Standing beneath the yellow porch light was a tall, lean man dressed in a charcoal wool overcoat. Water streamed from the brim of a dark felt fedora, cascading down the broad shoulders of an expensive European cut. His hair was iron-gray, pulled back behind his ears. Down the left side of his throat, running from the jawline down beneath the collar of his white dress shirt, was the thick, jagged keloid scar where the river flume had torn his skin to the bone forty years ago.
He wasn't carrying a weapon. In his gloved hands, he held a sleek aluminum briefcase.
He looked up at the window, his eyes locking directly onto mine with an uncanny, predatory accuracy. A faint, cruel smile touched the corners of his thin lips. He raised two fingers to the brim of his hat in a mockery of a family greeting.
"He's alone," I said, dropping the curtain.
"That doesn't mean he's unarmed," Clara whispered.
"Julian, don't let him in!" Beatrice sobbed, sinking to her knees on the oriental rug, pressing her face into the seat of a dining chair. "He's going to kill us! He's going to kill all of us!"
"Be quiet, Beatrice!" I hissed. I looked up at the staircase. Arthur had walked down the steps. He stood at the bottom of the flight, the unloaded double-barreled shotgun hanging loosely at his side. His face was entirely devoid of expression, like a portrait whose colors had been bleached away by forty years in the sun.
"Let him in, Julian," Arthur said. "Let him in. A ghost can't do anything to a house that's already dead."
I took a deep breath, steeling myself against the surging adrenaline that threatened to turn my legs to water. I walked to the door, turned the deadbolt, and pulled it wide.
The cold autumn wind swept into the entryway, bringing with it the scent of wet pine, river silt, and the expensive, foreign cologne of the man who stepped across the threshold.
Thomas Vance wiped his leather boots carefully on the welcome mat. He took off his fedora, shaking the rain droplets onto the hardwood floor with a casual flick of his wrist. His eyes swept over the entryway, lingering for a second on the family portraits hanging along the wall, before settling on Arthur.
"Hello, Arthur," Thomas said softly. "You look old."
"And you look like a thief," Arthur replied, his voice flat, steady, and venomous. "You always were."
Thomas chuckled—that same dry, rattle that had chilled my blood on the cassette tape. He set the aluminum briefcase down on the hall table, unbuttoned his overcoat, and looked at me. His eyes were a startling, icy blue—the exact same shade as my own.
"You must be Julian," Thomas said, offering a gloved hand. "You have your mother's stubborn jaw and your father's tragic inability to understand balance sheets. You should have left the Delaware shell company alone, boy. It was working so smoothly."
"I don't shake hands with parasites," I said, keeping my hands at my sides. "You have five minutes to tell us why you shouldn't be locked in a federal penitentiary for wire fraud, extortion, and faking your own death."
Thomas didn't take offense. He simply withdrew his hand, unzipped his gloves finger by finger, and laid them neatly beside his hat.
"Wire fraud?" Thomas repeated with genuine amusement. "My dear boy, who do you think funded your firm's initial partnership buyout five years ago? Where do you think the two million dollars in seed capital came from when you decided you were too proud to work for the city banks?"
The floor beneath my feet felt as though it had dropped away entirely. Clara gasped behind me.
"What did you say?" I whispered.
"Oh, did Eleanor not tell you?" Thomas murmured, his smile broadening until his teeth showed behind his silver beard. "She told you it was a private equity angel from Boston, didn't she? A low-interest venture loan secured against your future earnings."
Thomas tapped the aluminum briefcase with his manicured index finger.
"That wasn't private equity, Julian. That was my money. Derived from the southern timber parcels Arthur signed away in 1986. Every dollar of your pristine, self-made wealth was washed through Zurich, cleared through Delaware, and deposited into your operating account. You didn't cancel my allowance, Julian."
Thomas leaned in, his voice dropping into a lethal, conspiratorial whisper.
May you like
"You canceled your own mortgage. And now, under the terms of the default clause in your partnership agreement, I own every single asset you thought you built with your bare hands."
***
