Chapter 7 - The Projection of Truth
"Lauren," Madison sighed, rolling her eyes toward Brandon. "Can we please not do a PowerPoint presentation about your feelings? We just want to have dinner."
"This isn't about my feelings, Madison," I said, pulling out the iPad and placing it flat on the glass table. I tapped the screen, connecting the device via AirPlay to the seventy-five-inch Samsung frame television mounted above the marble fireplace.
The television screen flashed blue, then illuminated with a razor-sharp, high-definition split-screen display.
On the left was Dylan’s video: the clear, lateral tracking shot of Richard’s face, his calculated approach, the violent down-thrust of his arm, the plate cracking, the gravy splashing.
On the right was Madison’s video: the audio crisp, capturing Richard’s preparatory whisper: "Watch this, Maddie. Time to put your sister in her place."
Below both videos was a third pane: a freeze-frame of Uncle Gerald slapping his knee, with an overlay of the corporate bank ledger showing the two-hundred-thousand-dollar transfer to his shell company, Mountain View Holdings LLC, dated three days before the banquet.
Uncle Gerald’s face drained of blood so fast he had to grab the mantelpiece to steady himself. The tumbler in my father’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth.
"What the hell is this?" Richard growled, leaning forward, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You're playing games in my house?"
"I’m reviewing the family archive," I answered smoothly, tapping the screen again. The audio filled the vaulted living room—the sound of my face striking the porcelain, the laughter, the sound of Patricia sipping her wine, and then the sickening crunch of my father’s voice calling me a useless creature.
"Turn that damn thing off!" Richard roared, slamming his glass onto the side table. Scotch sloshed over the polished walnut. He lunged to his feet, his face turning an alarming shade of mottled crimson. "You think you can come into my home, insult my guests, and parade this garbage around? You ungrateful little bitch! I gave you life! I built this family!"
"You didn't build a family, Richard," I said, standing my ground as he crossed the room toward me. "You built a private theater where you could abuse people without consequence because you paid their bills."
"I’ll throw you out on the street!" he bellowed, his fist clenching, raising his arm exactly as he had done at the banquet hall.
"Touch me," I whispered. My voice wasn't loud, but it had the density of tungsten. "Touch me, Richard. The audio and video from this room are streaming live to a secure server. If your hand comes within six inches of my body, the 911 dispatch will receive an automated distress call with our exact coordinates and the assault recording."
He froze. His chest heaved against his tailored shirt. For the first time in my life, I saw something flick across his eyes that had never been there before: calculation turning into dread.
Madison looked between the screen and Gerald's name on the bank ledger. "Uncle Gerald... what is that money? Dad, what is she showing?"
"Shut up, Madison!" Richard barked without looking at her.
"No, don't shut up, Madison," I said, turning to my sister. "That’s the money your father stole from the regional infrastructure contracts to pay for your Hamptons house. Every single dollar was skimmed from school building supplies. If Gerald doesn't tell the federal investigators the truth, he goes to federal prison for wire fraud and conspiracy. And if he does tell the truth, your father goes with him."
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Patricia sank onto the sofa, her hands covering her mouth, her manicured perfection finally crumbling into ash. "Lauren... please... this is your father... this is your family..."
"My family," I said, looking around the room, "was in that banquet hall. And not one of you asked if my mouth was bleeding."
