Chapter 7 - Confrontation in the Study
Travis spun around, his hand instinctively reaching into his jacket.
Mother didn't flinch. She set her porcelain teacup down on the saucer with a soft, delicate clink.
"Liam," she said smoothly, as if I had just arrived late for Sunday lunch. "You look terrible. You really shouldn't have run away from the cemetery. People are talking."
"Let them talk," I said, stepping into the study. "Let's talk about Julian Vance, Mom. Let's talk about the man you threw off the bridge to play my brother’s corpse."
The corporate lawyer looked up, his face draining of color. "Mrs. Vane... what is he talking about?"
"Be quiet, Arthur," Mother said softly, without taking her eyes off me. "Liam is having an episode. We discussed this. The trauma of Evan's death has broken his mind."
"My mind is completely fine, Mom," a second voice spoke from the doorway.
Evan stepped into the room, leaning against the doorframe, his bruised face caught in the morning light filtering through the high glass windows.
The lawyer gasped, dropping his pen. "Jesus Christ..."
Travis’s composure shattered. His eyes went wild as he stared at Evan as if a corpse had just walked out of hell.
"You..." Travis stuttered, drawing a black 9mm pistol from his shoulder holster. "I killed you! I beat you until you stopped moving in that alley!"
"You beat Julian Vance, you psychotic bastard," Evan spat, his voice shaking with pure fury. "I was across the street in the alleyway. I watched you throw him into the back of your van."
"Travis," Mother snapped, her voice dropping all pretense of maternal warmth, turning sharp as razor wire. "Put the gun away. Not in front of Arthur."
"Arthur isn't leaving, Aunt Eleanor!" Travis yelled, pointing the gun back and forth between me and Evan. "The whole plan is blown! They have the police with them—look out the window!"
Down on the drive, flashing red and blue lights cut through the gray fog as Detective Miller’s backup units rounded the bend, tires screaming against the gravel.
"You ruined everything!" Travis roared at my mother. "You said the twins wouldn't fight back! You said Liam was too soft!"
"Liam is soft," Mother said, finally standing up from her chair. Her eyes were dead, pitch black, fixed entirely on me. "He always was. Just like his father. Full of sentiment. Full of weak, useless guilt."
"I trusted you," I whispered, the words burning my throat. "When Dad died, I spent six years making sure you were taken care of. I gave up my career in Chicago to stay here and run the family foundation for you!"
Mother smiled—a small, cold, pitying smile.
"You gave up your career because you were weak, Liam," she said softly. "Edward built an empire, and he wanted to hand it to two boys who wanted to build playgrounds and write books. I built this family. I preserved this wealth. And I am not going to let two ungrateful mistakes tear it down."
"It's over, Eleanor," Detective Miller’s voice echoed from the bottom of the stairs. "Drop the weapon, Travis! The house is surrounded!"
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Travis panicked.
He didn't drop the gun. He swung the barrel straight toward Evan’s chest.
