Chapter 3 - The Cold Table
The thirty guests in the dining room sat as still as statues.
Daniel’s face flushed a deep, ugly shade of plum. "What the hell is this, Nora? Who are these people? Why did you bring my dead father's disgraced brother into my house?"
"It’s not your house, Daniel," I said calmly, taking three slow steps into the center of the room. My voice was quiet, but in that silent, suffocating space, it sounded like thunder. "And these aren't just guests. They’re the people who are going to help you pack."
Lorraine stepped up beside her son, her pearl necklace trembling against her chest. "Have you lost your mind?! You embarrass my son in front of his friends, you abandon your duties as a wife, and now you bring officers into my home on my birthday?!"
"Inspector Miller," Evelyn Price interrupted smoothly, opening her leather portfolio on the mahogany sideboard, right next to Lorraine’s crown-shaped birthday cake. "Please read section 4-B of the municipal asset seizure order."
Inspector Miller stepped forward, pulling a gold-rimmed pair of reading glasses from his pocket.
"As of 6:00 PM this evening," Miller read in a monotone, bureaucratic voice, "The property known as 142 Riverdale Heights Drive, along with all attached residential structures, personal property purchased under Vance Logistics operating funds, and corporate vehicles, has been placed under temporary receivership due to unpaid tax liabilities totaling $2.4 million, fraudulent deed filings, and corporate asset diversion."
"Nonsense!" Lorraine shrieked, her voice cracking into a high-pitched squeak. "Arthur left this house to me! I am Arthur’s widow!"
"Arthur left this house to Vance Heritage Ltd.," Evelyn corrected her with icy precision. "A company of which Arthur held seventy percent. Upon his death, his shares were transferred not to you, Lorraine—since you signed a binding postnuptial agreement three years ago in exchange for your gambling debts being settled—but to an independent trust managed by Nora Vance."
Daniel dropped his scotch glass. It shattered against the hardwood floor, dark liquid soaking into the expensive Persian rug.
"You're lying!" Daniel roared, taking a aggressive step toward me, his hand balling into a fist just as he had done two hours earlier. "She’s my wife! She doesn't own shit! Nora, get upstairs right now before I—"
CLACK.
Detective Frank Vance stepped directly into Daniel’s path, placing one massive, calloused hand against Daniel’s chest and pushing him back three feet with effortless power.
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"Touch her again, kid," Frank growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, lethal register, "and I won't wait for a warrant. I'll take you down for domestic assault right here in front of your mother's catering audience. We have the security footage from the hallway when you pulled her hair at four o'clock. You think Arthur didn't put cameras in his own corridors?"
Daniel went entirely pale. His gaze darted to the small black dome concealed in the crown molding above the dining room entrance. He had forgotten. He had been so drunk on his own unearned power that he had forgotten Arthur was an engineer who monitored every corner of his estate.
