Chapter 16 - The Harbor View Ambush
The drive to Portland took an hour and fifteen minutes. Liam drove with both hands planted firmly on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles bulged against his skin.
"Liam," I said softly, reaching across the console to cover his hand with mine. "You don't have to face her. Let me and the attorneys handle this."
"No," Liam said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual gentle warmth. "Your mother spent your whole life making you think you were the only one who had to bleed to keep peace. She wants to use Sarah’s memory to tear you down? She’s going to look me in the eye when she tries."
We arrived at the Harbor View Bistro at twelve-fifteen. It was a high-end restaurant overlooking the marina, filled with business executives, tourists, and elderly socialites enjoying white wine and grilled halibut.
Through the tall glass windows, I spotted Eleanor immediately.
She was seated at a corner booth with a view of the water, dressed in an immaculate cream-colored boucle suit, her pearls resting against her throat like a row of small, pale teeth. Across from her sat a young man with a scruffy beard, a leather jacket, and an open audio recorder resting on the tablecloth.
Eleanor was holding court. She was gesticulating with an elegant, manicured hand, her lips curved into that practiced, sorrowful smile she always wore when delivering a devastating lie dressed up as maternal concern.
"Wait here for thirty seconds," Liam said quietly. He unbuckled his seatbelt. "Let’s end this properly."
We walked through the restaurant doors together. The maitre d' tried to intercept us with a cheerful greeting, but Liam bypassed him with a single, polite nod that left no room for interruption.
As we approached the corner booth, Eleanor’s voice floated through the ambient clatter of silverware:
"...and of course, the tragic loss of his late wife left many unanswered questions in the local community. My daughter is vulnerable, you see, recovering from a traumatic separation, and this man has insinuated himself—"
"Eleanor," I said, stepping right up to the edge of the booth.
My mother froze. The fork in her hand hovered three inches above her salad plate.
The color drained from her cheeks in a rapid, shocking wave, leaving her powdered skin looking like gray plaster. The young reporter looked up, startled, his eyes darting between me and Liam.
"Clara," Eleanor stammered, attempting to recover her haughty composure. "What a... charming surprise. I was just having a private lunch with an associate."
"You were having lunch with a tabloid stringer to peddle a defamatory lie about a fatal car accident," Liam said, his voice carrying clearly across the surrounding tables. "Turn off that recorder, son."
The reporter looked at Liam’s six-foot-two frame and the cold fury in his gray eyes, and immediately clicked the stop button on the device.
"Who are you?" the reporter asked defensively.
May you like
"I’m Liam Cole," Liam said, resting his palms on the edge of the table, leaning in until he was inches from Eleanor’s face. "The man you’re libeling. And behind us, walking through those doors right now, is Detective Miller from the county fraud unit, accompanied by Julianna Vance."
***
