Chapter 3 - The Scent of Pine and Iron
The drive back from Huntsville was a nightmare wrapped in black leather.
Uncle Victor didn't speak. He drove the Tahoe with both hands on the wheel, his knuckles white, his eyes fixed on the dark ribbon of Highway 19 as it unspooled through the pine trees. In the back seat, Ethan had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep, his head resting against my thigh, his small chest rising and falling in the erratic rhythm of a child who had cried until his lungs were dry.
My mother was dead.
The clock on the dashboard read 7:14 PM. At 6:06 PM, the state had verified that her heart had stopped beating. We hadn't stayed for the announcement. Victor had practically dragged us out of the secondary waiting room the moment the warden walked in with the clipboard.
My phone—a cheap, cracked model I used for my college courses—was buzzing in my pocket. Texts from friends. Notifications from the local news. “Helen Avery Executed for 2020 Murder of Prominent Architect.” I didn't open them. The text that mattered was the one I had sent five minutes ago to a number I had memorized from my father’s old business directory: “Arthur, I need you at the old property. Don't call Victor.”
Arthur Vance had been my father’s corporate attorney before the firm was absorbed by Victor’s conglomerate. He had retired to a small ranch near Conroe after the trial, his name blackened by the papers because he had dared to suggest on the witness stand that my father’s accounting books had been altered prior to the murder.
"Maddie," Victor said, his voice breaking the silence like an ax splitting cedar. He didn't look at me through the rearview mirror. "We’re going to stop by the office first. I need to sign the release forms for the funeral home. We want her brought back to the county properly. No state burial."
"Why did she say you promised her, Victor?" I asked. My voice didn't shake. The grief had gone cold, hardening into something sharp and metallic in the back of my throat.
Victor sighed, a long, theatrical sound of a man bearing an impossible cross. "Your mother was a very sick woman, Maddie. You know what the prosecutors said about her paranoia. She believed everyone was against her. In her mind, I was the enemy because I was the one who kept the business from collapsing after your father’s… accident. She thought if she blamed me, it would somehow absolve her of the guilt."
"Ethan isn't paranoid," I said, looking out at the dark trees. "He was five years old when it happened. He didn't know what a ledger was. He didn't know what a watch pocket was. How did he know about the clover key, Victor?"
The Tahoe veered slightly to the right, the tires hitting the rumble strip on the shoulder with a loud, vibrating bzzzzzt before Victor pulled it back into the lane. His jaw muscle jumped.
"Children absorb things from the news, Maddie. The trial was televised locally for three weeks. The defense mentioned a dozen different keys. It’s secondary trauma manifestation. He’s built a narrative to protect himself from the reality that his mother was a monster."
He turned the SUV off the highway, entering the gravel access road that led to the industrial park where Avery-Cole Construction had its main yards. The yard was empty at this hour, the giant yellow excavators and dump trucks sitting in the dark like sleeping mammoths. At the back of the lot stood the old two-story brick office building that my father had designed himself.
And behind it, hidden by a row of overgrown privet hedges, was the historic brick well that the city had preserved during the zoning development.
Victor parked the vehicle near the side entrance, leaving the engine running. "Stay here with your brother. I'll be five minutes."
"I need to use the restroom," I said, already unbuckling my seatbelt.
May you like
Victor paused, his hand on the door handle. In the dim light of the dashboard, his eyes looked small, dark, and entirely empty of the uncle who used to buy us ice cream after little league. "Maddie. Don't be difficult. It’s been a very long day."
"I’m not being difficult, Uncle Victor," I said, opening my door and letting the hot, humid Texas night air rush into the air-conditioned cabin. "I’m just tired of being lied to."
