Chapter 8 - Unmasking the Golden Child
Julian slumped down onto the porch steps, burying his face in his hands. The illusion of his golden sister, the pride of the Vance family, was collapsing before him in black-and-white bank statements verified by federal investigators.
"Julian, tell me she’s lying!" Theresa cried, her voice cracking as she reached for her son’s shoulder. "Your sister is an innocent victim! Those wicked partners of hers set her up! Marcus will prove it!"
"Marcus dropped Lauren’s case two hours ago, Theresa," I said, leaning against the column. "Paula called me before I drove over here. Marcus discovered that Lauren forged his firm’s letterhead to verify her corporate assets to the hard-money lenders. If Marcus represents her, he risks disbarment. Lauren is on her own, represented by a public defender who has already advised her to take a plea deal for seven years in Danbury Federal Prison."
Theresa began to rock back and forth in her wicker chair, a pathetic figure stripped of the expensive coats, the patronizing smiles, and the venomous remarks she had thrown at me for thirty-six months.
"Seven years..." she whimpered. "My baby girl... in prison..."
"She isn't a baby girl," I snapped, my patience finally wearing thin. "She is a thirty-two-year-old criminal who used your vanity and Julian’s blind loyalty as human shields. When I asked her why she was treating my husband like an unpaid chauffeur, you laughed at me. When she asked for my savings, and I refused, you set an empty plate in front of me at a five-star restaurant and told the entire dining room that I didn't deserve a seat at your table."
Theresa looked up, her lips quivering. "It was just a dinner... it was just a family dinner..."
"It was a declaration of war," I said. "You wanted to remind me of my place. You wanted to make sure everyone knew I was an outsider who could be starved of respect, starved of love, and discarded the moment I stopped being useful."
I took a slow step closer, standing directly over her chair.
May you like
"Now look around you, Theresa. Look at the walls your husband built. Look at the mahogany front doors. The silver tea service in the dining room. Every single brick belongs to me. Friday at noon, the locks will be changed. The sheriff will be standing right where I am standing now. And you will be on the curb with whatever you can fit into three trash bags."
***
