Chapter 4 - The Calm Before the Storm
That evening, Vanessa returned home from her weekly yoga class and shopping trip, humming a cheerful tune as she tossed her designer handbag onto the kitchen island.
She kicked off her heels, poured herself a glass of white wine, and walked into the living room where I was sitting quietly by the fireplace, reading a book.
“Ugh, traffic on the interstate was a nightmare today,” Vanessa sighed, leaning over the back of the sofa to give me a peck on the cheek, which I coldly ignored. She didn’t seem to notice, swirling her wine glass with an air of careless superiority. “How is your mother doing? Did that old quack Dr. Harrison say her breathing is getting worse? Honestly, Julian, if she needs another round of tests at the clinic next week, someone else is going to have to drive her. I have a luncheon with the real estate development board on Thursday to discuss listing the north ridge property.”
I slowly closed my book, placing it face down on the side table.
I looked up at her—at the woman I had trusted for ten years, the woman who smiled in my face while pouring freezing water over a sick, defenseless old woman.
“You’re planning to list the north ridge property?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm.
Vanessa smiled, taking a sip of her wine. “Well, yes. We’ve talked about this, haven't we? Keeping that old, rotting house is just draining our finances. If we sell it to the commercial syndicate, we’ll clear nearly five million. We can buy that penthouse downtown, travel to Europe, and finally start living our lives without being weighed down by your mother’s endless medical expenses.”
“And how do you plan to transfer the deed, Vanessa?” I asked, tilting my head slightly. “The property is in my mother’s name. Without her signature, the county registrar won't even look at your paperwork.”
Vanessa let out a light, dismissive laugh, waving her hand casually. خ “Oh, please. Your mother is practically senile at this point. With a little guidance on how to hold a pen, she’ll sign whatever paperwork we put in front of her. Or, failing that, I already have power of attorney filed away.”
“Power of attorney,” I repeated softly. “The one you drafted using forged notary stamps and hidden medical logs?”
Vanessa’s wine glass stopped halfway to her mouth.
The casual, relaxed expression on her face flickered, replaced by a sudden, sharp edge of suspicion. Her eyes darted down to my hands, then across the room toward the pantry.
“What... what are you talking about, Julian?” she asked, her voice dropping an octave as her artificial sweetness vanished. “What kind of game are you playing?”
I stood up slowly from my chair, towering over her. I didn’t shout. I didn't raise a fist. I simply pulled my phone from my pocket, tapped the screen twice, and placed it flat on the coffee table between us.
On the screen, the video began to play with crystal-clear audio and high-definition video:
“Even your suffering is a burden.”
The sound of the heavy pitcher tilting. The icy water crashing over my mother’s frail, shivering shoulders. Martha’s weak, terrified gasps for air.
Vanessa watched the screen, and in a fraction of a second, every shred of color vanished from her face. Her breath caught in her throat, and her wine glass slipped from her fingers, shattering into a thousand sparkling shards against the hardwood floor, spilling red wine like blood across the rug.
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“Julian... wait... let me explain... I can explain everything!” Vanessa stammered, stumbling backward until her spine hit the kitchen counter, her eyes wide with animalistic panic.
“You had your chance to explain, Vanessa,” I said, stepping closer, my voice cold enough to freeze fire. “Now, you can explain it to the state troopers waiting outside.”
