Chapter 64 - The Sister’s Arrival
Before I could answer, before Arthur could reach for the glass of untouched bourbon on the table, the sudden, shrill blast of a car horn shattered the silence outside.
Arthur's head jerked toward the front window. "What the hell is that?"
The sound wasn't coming from his Suburbans. It was coming from the narrow lane behind them—a sharp, frantic, continuous blare that echoed through the snow-choked trees. A second later, the sound of screeching tires tore through the night, followed immediately by the dull, violent crunch of metal tearing into metal.
One of Arthur’s guards outside shouted, his voice muffled by the storm, followed by the harsh rack of a shotgun slide.
"Did you call the police?" Arthur snarled, his hand diving toward his coat pocket.
"I didn't call anyone," I said, rising smoothly to my feet, my hand closing around the Glock hidden beneath the folds of my woolen cardigan. "Stay where you are, Arthur."
A third vehicle—a battered, salt-encrusted red sedan with a crushed front bumper—had plowed directly into the rear quarter-panel of Arthur’s escort truck, pinning it against the stone pillar at the entrance to the driveway. The driver’s door was thrown open, and a figure tumbled out into the knee-deep snow, stumbling wildly toward the front porch.
It was a woman. She was wearing an oversized trench coat over what looked like hospital scrubs, her bare ankles thrust into unlaced winter boots. Her blonde hair was matted with snow and sweat, sticking to her face as she scrambled up the steps, screaming my name.
"Julian! Julian, open the door! Don't let them—"
Arthur’s lead guard lunged up the porch steps behind her, grabbing her by the collar of her coat and slamming her hard against the exterior railing.
"Get off her!" I roared, kicking the front door open, the freezing blizzard blasting into the great room.
The guard turned, reaching for the sidearm holstered at his chest, but the sight of my Glock leveled directly between his eyes froze him mid-draw. The wind whipped between us, snow swirling across the threshold like crushed glass.
"Let her go," I said, my voice cutting through the howl of the storm with mechanical precision. "Take your hand off her coat or you won't leave this porch alive."
The guard hesitated, his breath pluming white, his eyes darting toward the interior where Arthur was slowly pushing himself up from the sofa.
"Stand down, Briggs," Arthur called out from behind me, his voice tight. "Let her in."
The guard released his grip. The woman collapsed forward onto the porch, crawling on hands and knees across the threshold into the warmth of the room. She was shaking violently, her breath coming in ragged, hysterical gasps as I slammed the oak door shut and slid the deadbolt into place.
I stepped back, keeping my weapon trained on Arthur while looking down at the shivering wreck on the floorboards.
It was Beatrice.
My sister. The woman who had marched into our wedding reception six months ago in a five-thousand-dollar designer gown, screaming that I was destroying her life because I refused to co-sign a seventy-two-thousand-dollar mortgage on a riverfront condo. The woman who had plunged both hands into our six-tier wedding cake, overturning the table, shattering the crystal flutes, and swearing she would see me stripped of every penny I owned before she let me live in peace.
Now, she was lying on my floor, her scrubs stained with grease and road grime, her fingers bleeding where her acrylic nails had been torn off down to the quick.
"Julian..." she sobbed, looking up at me through swollen, blackened eyes. "Julian, you have to run... she's killing everyone. She took Mom. She took Eleanor."
Arthur stood frozen near the fireplace, his face draining of what little color it possessed. "What did you say?"
Beatrice turned toward the sound of Arthur's voice, her eyes widening in pure terror. She scrambled backward against the wall, pulling her knees to her chest, her whole body convulsing with sobs. "Uncle Arthur... oh God, Uncle Arthur, you're here. You don't know... you think you're getting the money..."
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"What did she do to Eleanor?" Arthur barked, taking an unsteady step toward her, raising his cane like a club. "Where is my sister?"
"Eleanor was arrested at O'Hare three hours ago," Beatrice wept, her teeth chattering so hard the words were barely intelligible. "The feds didn't take her. It wasn't the FBI. It was private security... men with Swiss badges and diplomatic plates. They took her from the terminal! They said the master trust had been breached! Mom tried to stop them and they... they threw her down the concrete stairs near baggage claim! Julian, Mom's in the ICU at Lutheran General! Her skull is fractured!"
