Chapter 6 - The Gathering of Predators
Three days later, the rain was pouring over Manhattan.
The funeral service for Eleanor Whitmore was held at St. Patrick's Cathedral on Fifth Avenue.
The church was filled with three hundred people—society elites, corporate board members, socialites, and media figures dressed in expensive black coats. None of them had visited me during my six months of illness, but everyone wanted to be seen at the funeral of one of the richest women in New York.
In the front row sat Christopher, Madeline, and Diane.
Christopher wore a bespoke black suit, his face set in a performative expression of solemn grief for the news cameras waiting outside. Madeline wiped non-existent tears from beneath her oversized black sunglasses, while Diane adjusted a expensive mink coat she had bought on credit, assuming her inheritance would cover it by next week.
"Make sure the press gets photos of us near the casket," Christopher whispered to Madeline across the aisle. "It establishes our position as sole heirs before the probate hearing."
"Has Croft contacted you about the reading of the will?" Madeline whispered back.
"His secretary called this morning," Christopher smiled smugly. "The reading is at three o'clock at Croft's main office on Park Avenue. Everything is standard. Mother was just putting on a dramatic show with those homeless squatters. Once the estate passes to us, I'm having that townhouse cleared and listed for forty million."
"I want the Hamptons estate," Diane interjected sharply. "Eleanor always promised I could have the coastal house."
"We'll divide it evenly, Aunt Diane," Christopher said smoothly. "Don't worry. The nightmare is over. The money is ours."
Sitting four rows behind them, completely ignored by the high-society crowd, were Sarah and Noah.
They were dressed neatly in simple, clean black clothes. Noah held the sealed gold envelope Eleanor had given him on Christmas Eve tightly against his chest, tears streaming silently down his cheeks as he stared at the flower-covered mahogany casket at the altar.
Nobody spoke to them. Nobody acknowledged their presence. To the wealthy crowd, they were invisible—just two anonymous mourners sitting near the back.
When the service concluded, Christopher, Madeline, and Diane marched out of the cathedral, stepping past Sarah and Noah without a single glance.
At 2:45 p.m., the family arrived at the high-rise offices of Harrison & Croft on Park Avenue.
The conference room was massive, lined with mahogany paneling, leather chairs, and floor-to-ceiling glass windows offering a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline.
Christopher sat at the head of the long glass table, crossing his legs confidently. Madeline sat beside him, taking out a compact mirror to check her lipstick, while Diane flipped through a real estate brochure for Hamptons properties.
"Where is Croft?" Christopher asked impatiently, looking at his diamond watch. "It's three o'clock."
The heavy double doors of the conference room opened.
Marcus Croft stepped inside. He was a silver-haired man in his sixties, renowned as the most formidable estate attorney in North America. His face was cold, unreadable, and devoid of any warm greeting.
Behind him came Sarah and Noah.
Christopher gasped, his face instantly twisting in anger as he slammed his hand against the glass table.
"What are they doing here?!" Christopher shouted, pointing at Sarah and Noah. "Robert! I mean, Mr. Croft! Why are these street vagrants allowed in a private family estate reading?!"
Madeline stood up, her voice screeching. "This is absurd! Get them out of here right now! They have nothing to do with my mother's money!"
Marcus Croft didn't even raise his voice. He walked to the head of the table, set his heavy leather briefcase down, and looked at Christopher with absolute, icy contempt.
"Sit down, Mr. Whitmore," Croft said, his tone carrying a weight that made Christopher instantly freeze. "Mrs. Sarah Reed and her son Noah are present at the explicit written command of Eleanor Whitmore. If you speak to them in that tone again, I will have private security remove you from this building immediately."
Diane sneered, folding her arms. "This is a joke. Eleanor was senile! Whatever paper she signed with these scammers won't hold up five minutes in probate court!"
Croft pulled a thick, gold-embossed legal binder from his briefcase, opening it slowly.
"Eleanor Whitmore underwent four independent psychological evaluations by the Chief of Psychiatry at New York-Presbyterian Hospital during her final three months," Croft said calmly, pulling out three notarized medical certificates. "All four evaluations concluded that Mrs. Whitmore possessed absolute mental clarity, sound judgment, and exceptional legal competence until her final breath."
Madeline's face went pale.
May you like
Croft adjusted his reading glasses, looking around the room.
"Now," Croft said, his voice echoing through the silent, glass-walled room. "Let us read the Last Will and Testament of Eleanor Whitmore."
