Chapter 5 - Cracks in the Facade
The clatter of Martha Ray dropping her silver soup spoon onto the porcelain plate echoed through the private room like a gunshot.
“Gary, Indiana?” Felix repeated, looking at his wife with genuine confusion. “Why would they look in Indiana? Honey, you’re from Savannah. Your parents have that peach orchard outside Savannah.”
Rya didn't answer him. Her breath had turned shallow, rapid. She stared at me, her eyes wide, the mask of the refined, contrite bride cracking down the center to reveal the terrified, cornered grifter beneath.
Arthur Higgins cleared his throat, attempting to salvage the operation. “Now see here, Mrs. Morrison! That sounds remarkably invasive! Our family has maintained our privacy for generations! We didn't come here to be subjected to some kind of corporate background check! We came here in good faith to reconcile our children!”
“Did you, Arthur?” I asked, turning my gaze slowly toward him. “Or did you come here for the twenty-five thousand dollars Julian Croft wired to your account at First National of Atlanta last Thursday?”
Arthur choked on his own breath. His face turned an alarming shade of crimson.
“Mom, what are you talking about?” Felix pleaded, his voice rising, panic bleeding into his tone. “Who is Julian Croft? What is happening right now?”
I didn't answer Felix. Not yet. The poison had to be drawn out completely, or the wound would never heal.
“Rya,” I said, keeping my voice cold and calm. “Tell your husband who Julian Croft is.”
“Felix, don't listen to her!” Rya suddenly cried out, grabbing Felix’s arm with both hands, her fingernails digging through his suit jacket. The fake southern lilt she had used for eighteen months was completely gone, replaced by the sharp, desperate cadence of a street fighter. “She’s trying to destroy us! She set this whole thing up! She hired private investigators to fabricate lies about my family because she can't stand that you love me more than you love her!”
“Fabricate lies?” I echoed.
I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out a sleek, thumb-sized digital drive, placing it on the table between our plates.
“On this drive is a recording made forty-two minutes ago outside the Drake Hotel,” I said. “Julian Croft was speaking with a man named Leonard Vance—your father, Celeste. He was calling from the federal penitentiary in Terre Haute, complaining that his commissary account hadn't been topped off with the ten thousand dollars you promised him from the Morrison wedding settlement.”
“Stop it!” Rya screamed.
She lunged across the table, her hands clawing for the digital drive.
She wasn't the sweet Montessori teacher anymore. She wasn't the grieving bride. Her face was twisted into a snarl of pure, feral rage, her velvet sleeve knocking over a wine glass, sending dark red liquid spilling across the white cloth like a pool of fresh blood.
Before her fingers could touch the drive, the side door clicked open.
Marcus Chen stepped into the room. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't raise his voice. He simply placed one large, heavy hand on Rya’s shoulder and pressed downward with just enough leverage to force her back into her chair.
“Sit down, Ms. Vance,” Marcus said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
Felix sat paralyzed, staring at the woman he had married three days ago.
“Ms. Vance?” Felix whispered, his voice cracking, hollow and broken. “Rya… what is he calling you? Why is he calling you that?”
Rya didn't look at him. She looked at Marcus, then at me, her chest heaving. The realization had finally broken through her arrogance: she was outmatched. She had stepped into an arena with people who dismantled cartels and hostile corporations for breakfast, armed only with a cheap con and an inheritance grift.
“You think you’re so smart, you old bitch,” Rya hissed, abandoning every shred of pretense. Her voice was venomous, stripped of every drop of charm. “You think you won? Felix signed the petition! It’s already on Judge Miller’s desk! By tomorrow afternoon, you’ll be sitting in a psych ward while we control the holding company!”
Arthur Higgins and Martha Ray stood up simultaneously, knocking their chairs backward, desperate to run for the exit.
“I wouldn't advise leaving through the front lobby,” Marcus said without looking at them. “Two detectives from the Chicago Police Financial Crimes Unit are waiting downstairs with warrants for interstate wire fraud and identity theft. If you sit down and keep your mouths shut, they might let you leave in an unmarked car.”
Arthur and Martha froze, then slowly, trembling, sank back into their chairs like deflated balloons.
Felix looked at his wife, tears streaming down his face. “Rya… the wedding. The mashed potatoes. Did you… did you do that on purpose?”
Rya turned her head and looked at Felix. For the first time, she looked at him with complete, unadulterated contempt.
“Of course I did it on purpose, you pathetic idiot,” she sneered. “You think I loved you? You think I wanted to spend my life listening to you whine about your daddy dying and your mommy working too much? You’re weak. You’ve always been weak. If your mother hadn't been sitting on three billion dollars, I wouldn't have looked at you twice in that gym.”
The words hit Felix like physical blows. He physically recoiled, collapsing backward against his chair, his face pale as chalk, his breath catching in his throat as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs.
I felt a mother’s murderous rage flare in my gut. I wanted to destroy her. I wanted to strip her of every breath she had left.
Instead, I picked up the digital drive, slipped it back into my pocket, and stood up.
“Henri,” I called out.
The maître d’ opened the door immediately.
“Escort Ms. Vance and her associates to the holding room downstairs,” I instructed. “The detectives have waited long enough.”
Marcus took Rya by the arm. She didn't fight him anymore. She walked out of the room with her head down, her emerald dress trailing through the spilled red wine, followed by her trembling fake parents.
The door clicked shut.
Only Felix and I remained.
May you like
My son sat alone in the vast, elegant room, surrounded by crystal chandeliers and spilled wine, sobbing into his hands like the six-year-old boy I had left behind thirty years ago.
***
