Chapter 9: The Dinner Table
Brenda's hand remained frozen on my lapel for a fraction of a second before she smoothed the fabric down with chilling composure. The assembled guests in the grand ballroom held their breath, turning their heads back and forth between us like spectators at a tennis match. Flashbulbs popped from the press gallery near the arched windows, capturing every micro-expression of panic Brenda tried so desperately to suppress behind her philanthropic smile.
"Arthur has always had such a vivid imagination, hasn't he?" Brenda announced to the surrounding tables, her voice carrying an easy, melodic laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "The grief over losing my dear husband's estate management has made him quite delirious. Security, please escort my husband and our wayward daughter to the foyer so they can recover."
Two private security guards in dark suits stepped forward from the shadows of the marble pillars. They were local men I recognized from the country club, decent fellows caught in the middle of a high-society war. I didn't wait for them to grab my arms. I stepped back, letting Brenda's fingers slide off my coat, and looked straight into her hardened eyes.
"You can call all the security you want, Brenda," I said, my voice steady and low. "The state troopers are already parked outside the gates. They have Dr. Sterling's confession and the original probate filings from the county clerk."
Maya reached the stage steps, her chest heaving as she clutched the red leather binder against her chest like a shield. She looked up at Brenda with a mixture of terror and fierce defiance. "It's over, Brenda. I gave the district attorney the audio recordings from your office safe twenty minutes ago. You lied to the board, you forged the medical proxy, and you tried to bury my sister alive."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Board members who had supported Brenda for a decade began whispering among themselves, sliding their chairs back from the mahogany dining tables. Brenda's immaculate facade finally cracked, a microscopic twitch of her jaw betraying the sheer terror of an empire built on sand collapsing in real time.
May you like
Before she could invent another excuse, the heavy oak doors at the back of the ballroom pushed open with a sharp click. Two uniformed state troopers, led by Lieutenant Vance, walked briskly down the central aisle. The camera shutters sounded like a swarm of angry locusts, recording every second of the downfall.
"Brenda Vance?" Lieutenant Vance asked, his voice echoing under the crystal chandeliers as he stopped three paces from the stage. "Step away from the podium, please. You're coming with us for questioning regarding corporate fraud and attempted manslaughter."
