Chapter 3 - The Clock on the Wall
Walter Briggs was Arthur’s second cousin, but more importantly, he was a retired lieutenant commander from the Naval Investigative Service who now ran Vanguard Systems, an executive protection and surveillance firm based out of Chicago.
When I called him from my locked basement bedroom at midnight, speaking in hushed whispers with a blanket thrown over my head, Walter didn't ask questions. He didn't offer empty platitudes about family therapy or reconciliation.
"Eleanor," Walter had said, his gravelly voice steady as granite. "If they have laid hands on you, they are not your children anymore. They are hostiles. Act accordingly."
Within twenty-four hours, Walter had dispatched a technician disguised as a high-end HVAC specialist, ostensibly hired to service Rachel’s smart-home ventilation system while she was out at a brunch meeting. In the space of forty-five minutes, three micro-cameras were embedded into the house: one in the basement hallway, one in the formal living room, and one—high-definition, wide-angle, with dual microphone arrays—hidden inside the ironwork above the kitchen pantry.
The system was wired directly to an encrypted cellular transmitter that bypassed the home’s Wi-Fi network entirely. If an alert was tripped, the feed was beamed straight to Vanguard’s command desk, with an automatic relay programmed to dispatch the Blackwood County Sheriff’s Emergency Response Unit.
The tripwire was simple: a small panic switch disguised as the safety clasp on Arthur’s silver pocket watch, which I carried permanently in my apron pocket.
As I lay on the floor now, looking at the blood on the tiles, my right hand was buried deep in that pocket.
My thumb had depressed the clasp the precise instant Marcus’s fist had struck my ribcage.
The timer was running.
"Eighteen minutes left," Marcus announced, standing over me like a colossus of cheap ambition. He pulled out his sleek smartphone, tapped the screen, and placed it on the island counter on speakerphone. "I have the escrow officer’s private line queued up. When the call connects, you will say the following: 'This is Eleanor Miller. I confirm the transfer instructions submitted by my attorney, Marcus Miller, for the full escrow balance of three million dollars to the Miller Trust account at First National.' If your voice shakes, if you say one word out of turn, I swear to God, Eleanor, you will never walk unassisted again."
"Marcus," Rachel warned softly, checking the front window through the plantation shutters. "Keep your voice down. The neighbors walk their dogs at this hour."
"The neighbors are two hundred yards away behind ten-foot privacy hedges," Marcus snapped, his patience evaporating. "Look at her! She’s playing possum. She thinks if she stays down there, we’ll take pity on her."
He nudged my hip with the toe of his shoe. The vibration sent a sickening flare of agony through my broken rib, and a sharp gasp escaped my lips.
"Get up," Marcus ordered.
"I can't," I muttered. It wasn't entirely a lie; the pain was staggering, a white-hot claw gripping my torso. "Help me into a chair."
Rachel rolled her eyes with an exaggerated groan. "Marcus, just lift her. Let’s get this over with. My wire transfer needs to clear before three o'clock or the landlord is locking the boutique doors."
Marcus leaned down, grabbing the collar of my cardigan and the waistband of my slacks, dragging me upward with callous unconcern for my injuries. I grunted, tears springing unbidden to my eyes as the jagged edges of my rib grated against one another. He shoved me into one of the heavy walnut barstools at the island.
My head lolled forward, but I forced my eyes open, fixing my gaze upon the smartphone sitting in the center of the quartz counter.
Beside the phone lay the forged Power of Attorney document.
"Let me see it," I whispered, reaching out a trembling hand.
"Why?" Marcus demanded, narrowing his eyes. "You don't need to read it. I drafted it. It’s ironclad."
"If I’m... if I’m surrendering," I rasped, touching my split lip with the back of my hand, "I want to see what my life was worth to you."
Rachel scoffed, but Marcus, flattered by his own bureaucratic handiwork, smirked and slid the parchment across the island toward me.
"Page three," Marcus said proudly. "Full indemnification. You waive any right to contest the asset allocation, you acknowledge receipt of adequate financial provision, and you forfeit any claim of elder exploitation or coercion. Notarized yesterday by an associate at my firm who doesn't ask questions when I hand him a hundred-dollar bill."
I looked down at the paper. There was my forged signature—a crude, shaky imitation of my looping cursive, executed by someone who had clearly traced an old Mother’s Day card.
"You really thought of everything, Marcus," I said quietly.
"I’m an attorney, Mom. I don't leave loose ends."
"And you, Rachel?" I turned my head slowly, looking at my daughter. She was checking her lip gloss in the reflection of the microwave door. "You’re comfortable with this? Watching your brother break my bones?"
Rachel turned around, snapping her compact shut with a sharp *clack*.
"You did this to yourself, Mother," she said, her voice devoid of human warmth. "If you had just given us our inheritance when Dad died, we wouldn't be here. You forced our hand. You’ve always been controlling, always holding the purse strings over our heads like we were naughty children. Now the dynamic has changed. It’s called Darwinism. The weak give way to the strong."
"Darwinism," I repeated, tasting the iron in my mouth. "I see."
Marcus picked up his phone. He dialed a ten-digit number and pressed the green call button.
"Twelve minutes left," he whispered, holding the phone directly in front of my face. "The call is ringing. Clear your throat, Eleanor. Be the good mother you always claimed to be."
Through the speaker, the dial tone buzzed once.
Twice.
Three times.
May you like
Then, the rhythmic wail of a high-decibel siren cut through the suburban silence, not from the phone, but from the street outside.
***
