Chapter 7 - Beatrice's Fall
The rain fell heavily against the sprawling leaded-glass windows of the Vance mansion in Crestview Heights.
Forty-eight hours had passed since the raid. The catered floral displays from the baby shower were wilting on the terrace, their pastel ribbons soaked and plastered against the flagstones. Inside, the massive rooms were eerily quiet, save for the hollow clicks of federal agents’ boots walking across bare floors as they cataloged every piece of high-value property.
Beatrice Vance stood in the center of her grand drawing room, wrapped in a sable coat that felt suddenly thin and useless against the draft.
"You have no right to touch that!" she shrieked at a young woman in an IRS vest who was carefully wrapping a seventeenth-century Dutch oil painting in archival foam. "That was purchased by Arthur’s grandfather! It is an heirloom!"
"It was purchased with corporate funds from Vance Holdings in 1994, Mrs. Vance," the agent replied without looking up. "The corporate entity has been seized under a federal civil forfeiture warrant. It belongs to the United States Marshals Service now."
"I will speak to your supervisor!" Beatrice spat, her voice trembling with a hysteria she could no longer suppress. "I am Beatrice Vance! My family founded the historical society in this city! We built the wing of the art museum! We—"
"Mrs. Vance," a voice interrupted from the doorway.
Beatrice turned, her haughty sneer rising instinctively, only to freeze when she saw me standing in the foyer.
I was wearing a simple dark coat over warm clothes. I was pale, moving slowly, supported by a cane in my right hand, but my back was straight and my chin was held high. Behind me stood Special Agent Reed, silent and watchful as an iron sentinel.
"You," Beatrice hissed, her aristocratic face contorting into an expression of pure, unadulterated venom. "You treacherous, common little parasite. You planned this. You came into our house, you smiled at our table, and all the while you were plotting to destroy us!"
I walked slowly into the drawing room, the tip of my cane clicking rhythmically against the marble floor. I stopped three feet from her.
"I didn't destroy you, Beatrice," I said, my voice quiet, clear, and steady. "You destroyed yourselves. You built your entire life on theft, bribery, and the suffering of people you considered beneath your notice. I simply took notes."
"Julian should have killed you," she snarled, stepping toward me with her claw-like hands raised.
Reed moved instantly, placing his hand on his service weapon, but I raised my hand to stop him. I did not step back. I looked into Beatrice’s bloodshot, wild eyes without an ounce of fear.
"Julian tried," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that cut through the cavernous room like a razor. "He struck an eight-month-pregnant woman. He struck his own child. And you stood there, in your diamonds and your silk, and you clapped."
Beatrice’s jaw worked silently, her face flushing crimson, then purple.
"Your son is facing twenty years in a federal penitentiary," I continued. "Arthur had a mild coronary episode in holding this morning; his bail hearing was denied, and he will spend his trial in a medical detention ward. Chloe has already signed a full confession implicating Julian in every offshore account he tried to hide. And this house?" I glanced around the cavernous, emptying room. "The deed was in the name of the family trust, which was dissolved this morning by court order. The auction will be held in sixty days."
Beatrice clutched her coat around her chest, looking around the room as though she were drowning in dry air. "Where... where am I supposed to go? I have no money! The banks won't even give me forty dollars from my personal checking!"
"You have a sister in Ohio, don't you?" I asked neutrally. "The one you haven't spoken to in fifteen years because her husband was a high school teacher and you considered them embarrassing?"
Beatrice gasped, as if I had slapped her across the mouth.
May you like
"I suggest you call her," I said, turning my back on her and walking toward the door. "Because the movers will be changing the locks at five o’clock. And unlike you, Beatrice... I won't be clapping while you pack."
***
