Chapter 26 - The Unraveling of the Patriarch
The French doors of the conservatory yielded to Sarah’s touch with a soft, reluctant click. Inside, the house smelled of damp earth, dying ferns, and the unmistakable, suffocating stench of scorched vellum.
We moved through the dark dining room where, only two days earlier, Lily had sat at the foot of the table, her small legs swinging above the floorboards, asking why her grandfather looked at her as if she were dirt. The long mahogany table was clear now, the silver candlesticks gone, packing crates stacked haphazardly against the walls.
Up the grand staircase, the sound of tearing paper and frantic footsteps echoed down the high-ceilinged corridor.
I stepped onto the Persian runner of the library threshold.
The room was in ruins. Four antique armchairs had been shoved aside to make room for two large metal trash cans, both containing roaring fires that sent soot billowing against the plaster ceiling. Richard Sterling stood over the hearth, his silk tie undone, his white hair disheveled and plastered to his forehead with sweat. His tailored suit was smeared with charcoal. In his hands was a thick, leather-bound volume—the 1968 land registry for Sussex County.
"Throw it in, you idiot," he was muttering to himself, his voice cracked and breathless. "Burn the whole damned line..."
"It won't burn fast enough, Richard," I said.
My father spun around, nearly tripping over an open strongbox on the floor. His hands shook violently as he dropped the book into the flames. In his right hand, half-hidden beneath the edge of his desk, was a heavy brass-headed walking cane.
"Elena?" he gasped, his eyes wild, darting from me to Miles, then to Arthur Vance. "How did you... the gates are chained! Vance, you trespass on my private property again and I’ll have your license revoked by morning!"
"You don't have a morning, Richard," Arthur said, remaining by the door, his phone held up, recording every square inch of the blazing room. "Deputies have already breached the main entrance off Route 9. The warrant is for first-degree fraud, tax evasion, and attempted murder."
Richard let out a dry, barking laugh that curdled into a cough. "Attempted murder? Have you lost your mind, you little shyster? Who am I supposed to have murdered? The tax board?"
"Not murdered," a voice said from the shadows of the hallway.
Sarah Clement stepped into the library.
The laugh died in Richard’s throat. His mouth stayed open, his jaw trembling as if struck by a sudden palsy. The brass cane slipped from his fingers and struck the parquet floor with a heavy, hollow thud that rolled through the room.
The color drained from his face until he looked like one of the marble busts rotting in the churchyard.
"You..." Richard choked out, taking two stumbling steps backward until his spine hit the edge of the burning trash can, making him yelp in terror and leap forward again. "You died in Portland. Halloway gave me the certificate... Mother Superior swore it on the altar..."
"You always believed the lies that cost you the least," Sarah said, stepping forward until the firelight illuminated the scar on her temple. "You pushed me off the bridge, Richard. You took an adjustable wrench to the bolts because you thought a six-year-old girl shouldn't inherit the timber rights. But Charles knew you were a dog. He fed you scraps for forty years and kept the real meat locked where your filthy hands couldn't reach it."
"Father lied to me," Richard whimpered, his aristocratic arrogance evaporating into a thin, pathetic whine. "He swore... he swore the estate was mine..."
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"The estate was never yours," I said, stepping between him and the burning bins. "Every meal you ate, every suit you bought, every cruel word you threw at my daughter was paid for with Sarah's money. You aren't a patriarch, Father. You're a squatter."
From down the long drive, the wail of sirens cut through the drumming rain, rising in pitch as three patrol cruisers turned into the Blackwood gates.
