Chapter 4 - The Dinner Table Trap
The atmosphere at the dinner table was a masterpiece of psychological warfare.
Cassandra had prepared a roasted chicken with rosemary and garlic, plating every portion with exquisite care. She sat at the head of the table opposite Matthew, her hair pinned back in a sleek chignon, wearing a silk blouse that caught the warm light of the crystal chandelier.
“Mother is resting comfortably upstairs,” Cassandra said, offering a serene, wifely smile as she poured a glass of cabernet sauvignon. “I brought her some soup earlier. She was a bit confused, of course, but she ate well.”
Matthew sat motionless, his hands resting flat on the mahogany table. He had not touched his wine. He had not touched his food.
“Did she tell you about the lockbox, Cassandra?” Matthew asked smoothly.
The knife in Cassandra’s hand paused half an inch above her chicken breast. The silence stretched for three agonizing heartbeats before she resumed cutting, her movements only slightly stiffer than before.
“The lockbox?” she murmured, looking up with a bemused, affectionate expression. “Oh, darling. You know how her mind jumps from one thing to another. She probably dreamed it. You’ve been away so much lately; her anxiety manifests in these strange fixations about her belongings.”
“Really?” Matthew leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his gray eyes locking onto hers with unblinking intensity. “Because Sofia corroborated her story. Word for word.”
Cassandra’s smile didn’t drop, but the corners of her mouth tightened perceptibly. She set her cutlery down with a soft, deliberate clink.
“Sofia?” Cassandra said, her voice dripping with calculated disappointment. “Matthew, are you seriously taking the word of a twenty-two-year-old housekeeper over your own wife? Sofia has been looking for an excuse to cause trouble ever since I reprimanded her last week for neglecting Helen’s medication.”
“Sofia didn't neglect my mother’s medication,” Matthew said, his voice dropping into a cold, level register. “In fact, I checked the pharmacy logs before dinner. My mother’s prescription hasn't been refilled in two months because you canceled the auto-shipment, claiming you were switching pharmacies.”
Cassandra blinked. For the first time, a flicker of genuine panic crossed her features, though she masked it instantly with an injured sigh.
“Matthew, you’re exhausted. The stress of your job is making you paranoid. Why would I cancel her medication?”
“That’s a very good question, Cassandra,” Matthew said, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a folded manila folder. He tossed it onto the center of the table, right beside the roasted chicken.
Cassandra looked down at the folder. Her breath hitched.
“What is that?” she asked, her voice losing its sweetness entirely.
“That is a complete audit of my father’s estate accounts, along with the recent mortgage refinancing documents filed against this house three weeks ago,” Matthew said coldly. “Documents that require my signature—or a notarized power of attorney. A power of attorney that conveniently bears a signature very similar to my mother’s, signed on a day when she was hospitalized for pneumonia and heavily sedated.”
The dining room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Cassandra stared at the folder, her mask of sweet domesticity finally melting away, revealing the cold, ambitious stranger beneath. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and let out a dry, humorless laugh.
“You really think you’re a detective, don’t you?” she sneered, her voice turning sharp and venomous. “You sit in your corporate glass towers auditing numbers while your mother rots in a chair and this house falls apart around us. Do you have any idea how much it costs to maintain this estate? How much of my youth I’ve wasted wiping her drool and listening to her ramble about your dead father?”
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“She raised me in this house,” Matthew said, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “She gave you a home, a life, and unconditional trust.”
“Trust doesn't pay the bills, Matthew,” Cassandra snapped, standing up so abruptly that her chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor. “And if you think I’m going to let an old woman and her bleeding-heart housekeeper ruin my future, you’re out of your mind. I want half the portfolio, and I want the deed to this property signed over by midnight. Otherwise, I’ll file charges against your mother for elder abuse and unstable behavior, and I’ll make sure the courts lock her away in a state facility where you’ll never see her again.”
