Chapter 8 - The Falling of the Curtains
The Sterling mansion was dead silent when Marcus Vance walked through the massive front doors.
The two private guards at the gate had already fled into the woods when they saw the State Highway Patrol cruisers appearing at the bottom of the ridge road. The heavy timber doors were unlocked, swinging open into a grand foyer lined with expensive oil paintings of old Appalachian landscapes.
Evelyn Sterling sat on the bottom step of the grand curved staircase. Her fur coat was pulled tight around her shoulders, her jewelry box clutched in her lap like a dead child. She looked up at Marcus as his muddy combat boots ruined the white marble floor.
“You think you’ve won, soldier boy?” she whispered, her voice cracked, her aristocratic elegance completely shattered. “My husband built this town. We made these people. Without us, they’re nothing but dirt.”
“They were here before you, Evelyn,” Marcus said, standing before her, his arms at his sides. “And they’ll be here when the state reclaims this house for tax fraud next month. Where is Miranda?”
Evelyn didn't answer. She just looked down at her diamonds, her fingers twisting the gold rings until her knuckles bled.
Marcus walked past her, his boots loud on the hardwood floor as he ascended the stairs to the west wing. He knew the layout; he had lived in this house for six months before the sickness of the Sterling name forced him out.
He found her in the master bedroom.
The room was dark, save for the blue light of the television screen which was still playing the audio loop of the driveway. Miranda sat on the edge of the bed, her silk dress stained with sweat and alcohol, a half-empty bottle of gin in her hand. She didn't look up when Marcus entered. She was staring at the heavy velvet drapes that covered the large window.
“Marcus,” she whispered, her voice thick, slurred. “Do you remember the night we brought her home from the hospital? When she was born? She was so small. She had your eyes.”
“She still has my eyes, Miranda,” Marcus said, stopping five feet from the bed. “But she has fractures in her arms because she used them to protect those eyes from your brothers.”
Miranda let out a dry, choking sob, her shoulders shaking. “They said she was disrespectful... they said you were trying to take her away from us... Charles said we had to show you that the family comes first.”
“Look at the window, Miranda,” Marcus said, his voice dropping into a cold, hard command.
She blinked, her bloodshot eyes moving slowly toward the glass.
“Open them,” Marcus said.
“No... no, it’s too dark outside... I don't want to see...”
“Open them!” Marcus roared, the sheer volume of his voice shaking the crystal chandelier above her head. It was the voice of a command sergeant major on a battlefield, a voice that brooked no refusal, no delay, and no illusion.
Miranda scrambled off the bed, her bare feet slipping on the rug as she ran to the window. With trembling, frantic hands, she grabbed the heavy velvet drapes and pulled them open.
Outside, the entire valley was illuminated by the blue and red flashing lights of forty state trooper vehicles and federal transport vans. The logging yard was surrounded by searchlights, the massive steel chains visible even from the ridge. A crowd of local townspeople—the loggers, the mechanics, the shopkeepers whom Charles had broken for decades—stood along the highway fence, watching the Sterling empire being dismantled piece by piece.
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“They’re looking at you, Miranda,” Marcus said softly from the dark center of the room. “They know exactly what you did when the curtain was closed. And they’re never going to look away.”
Miranda pressed her face against the glass, her hands clawing at the frame as she realized that the drapes couldn't keep the world out anymore. The nightmare hadn't remained in the driveway; it had expanded until it swallowed the whole mountain.
