Chapter 6 - The Shadows of Page Forty-Two
The kitchen seemed to shrink around me. The hum of the refrigerator felt deafening, a relentless mechanical scream pressing against my eardrums as my eyes remained glued to the legal document taped to page forty-two of the weathered leather album.
Cause of death: Blunt force trauma to the cranium.
Primary suspect: Phyllis Vance.
My breath caught in my throat. I stared up from the paper, my gaze locking onto my mother’s face. The terrifying part wasn't that the document existed; it was that she wasn't even pretending to panic. She stood there, blowing gently across the surface of her hot tea, watching me with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a specimen under a microscope.
“You’re... you’re a murderer,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. “All these years... you told me he walked out. You told me he abandoned us.”
“Richard did abandon his responsibilities,” Phyllis corrected smoothly, her voice utterly devoid of remorse. “He wanted to take you away from me, Marcus. He threatened to expose everything—every penny we embezzled from his family’s shipping business, every lie I built our life on. He packed his bags, yes. But he didn't drive out of Ohio. He didn't even make it out of the garage.”
From the floor, Clara let out a sharp gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, but she didn't dare make a sound.
“And you covered it up,” I said, rising slowly to my feet, my legs shaking with a lethal combination of shock and rage. “You framed it as a disappearance. You lived a lie for twenty-five years, and then you dragged me into it by naming me after a ghost.”
“I didn't drag you into anything, Marcus. I protected you,” Phyllis snapped, her calm facade finally cracking just a fraction, revealing the bitter, iron-fisted narcissism underneath. “Everything I built, I built for you. And now? You bring home a fragile, helpless liability like Clara, letting her slow you down, letting her drain your energy while you chase corporate ladders in Chicago. I came here to remind you of what blood really means. Strength. Control. Unyielding discipline.”
“This isn't strength. This is torture,” I snarled, taking a decisive step toward her. “It ends right now.”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and pressed three digits.
9-1-1.
Phyllis watched me dial. She didn't flinch. She didn't try to lunge for the phone. Instead, a slow, dark smile crept across her lips.
“Go ahead, Marcus,” she whispered. “Call them. Tell the police your mother is a killer. But while you’re explaining it to the dispatcher, make sure you tell them about the second document tucked in the back pocket of that album.”
I froze, my thumb hovering over the call button. “What second document?”
May you like
“The one that proves this house—and every single asset in your name—was purchased using the liquidation funds of Arthur Pendelton’s estate,” Phyllis said sweetly. “The moment the police investigate me, they investigate your finances. Conspiring with stolen estate money makes you an accessory after the fact, darling. You go down right beside me.”
---
