Chapter 6 - The Scramble for Cover
By Sunday afternoon, the cabin was silent.
When David, Jacob, and I returned from the framing shop in town, the driveway was empty. Susan, Jessica, and Uncle Mark had cleared out their belongings in what looked like a hurricane of frantic haste. A broken plastic hanger lay on the gravel; an empty cosmetic bag was discarded near the front porch steps.
Inside, the cabin felt larger, airier, as if months of suffocating atmospheric pressure had suddenly equalized.
David didn't waste a second. He carried an electric drill, a level, and a heavy brass picture hook into the living room.
Jacob stood beside him, clutching the framed painting like it was the Holy Grail. Mr. Miller, the elderly framer in town, had done a masterwork: he had mounted the warped watercolor on an archival mat board of deep, forest green, surrounding it with a chunky, dark walnut frame that made the crimson stain look intentional—like a dramatic, stormy sunset sweeping across the lake.
"Hold the level, Jake," David commanded gently.
Jacob placed the small plastic tool against the top of the frame, his tongue poking out between his teeth in that familiar, fierce concentration. "Bubble is right in the middle, Grandpa."
"Then drive it home," David said, handing Jacob a small wooden mallet to tap the picture hook into the pilot hole David had drilled.
*Tap, tap, tap.*
The painting was hung.
It sat squarely on the bare pine wall beside David's leather armchair. From where it hung, if you looked through the window just to the left, you could see the actual lake, dark and gray under the autumn sky, mirroring the painted water inside the glass.
Jacob stood back, his hands tucked into his pockets, a brilliant, radiant smile spreading across his face. "Two lakes," he murmured.
"Two lakes," David agreed, resting a heavy hand on Jacob’s head.
Meanwhile, back in Chicago, the storm had already made landfall.
My phone rang continuously throughout Sunday evening. Voicemails stacked up like cordwood.
First came Aunt Claire—Susan’s sister—demanding to know what "unforgivable cruelty" David had inflicted on Susan. Then came Brian’s father, asking why Mark was threatening to liquidate family property.
And then, on Monday morning at 8:45 AM, Jessica made her fatal mistake.
I was at my desk at the architectural firm in downtown Chicago, having dropped Jacob off at elementary school twenty minutes prior. My office phone buzzed with an urgent tone from the front desk receptionist.
"Leo? There’s... um, there's a woman down here in the lobby," Sarah, the young receptionist, whispered frantically. "She says she’s your sister. She’s screaming at building security, demanding to see the managing partner. She’s claiming you committed wire fraud."
My stomach turned to lead. "Call security, Sarah. Don't let her past the turnstiles."
"She’s already past them, Leo! She slipped through behind a courier—"
The heavy glass doors of our third-floor office suite swung open with a violent bang.
Jessica stormed into the open-plan office, her trench coat unbuttoned, her hair disheveled in a way that screamed she hadn't slept in thirty-six hours. Her eyes were bloodshot, her makeup smeared into hollow, bruised shadows under her eyes. In her hand, she clutched a sheaf of crumpled legal documents.
"Where is he?!" Jessica shrieked, ignoring the horrified stares of twenty architects and junior draftsmen who instantly froze at their desks. "Where is the little coward?!"
I stood up from my cubicle, stepping out into the central aisle to block her path toward the partners' corner offices.
"Jessica, get out of here," I said, my voice low and steady. "You are trespassing on private property."
"Trespassing?!" she laughed, a wild, unhinged sound. "You stole my life, Leo! My bank called me at eight o'clock this morning! The sheriff's department served a notice of eviction on my condo at eight-thirty! You and Dad plotted this! You manipulated a senile old man into cutting me out of the family trust so you could keep Sarah’s blood money for yourself!"
The entire office went dead silent. The name *Sarah* hung in the air like a live grenade.
Before I could speak, a door opened behind me.
Arthur Vance—David's younger brother and a senior equity partner at my firm—stepped out into the hallway, holding a steaming mug of tea. Beside him stood Richard Sterling, the managing partner and David’s personal estate attorney for the past twenty-five years.
Richard didn't look surprised to see Jessica. He looked like an executioner who had simply been waiting for the condemned to arrive at the scaffold on time.
May you like
"Jessica," Richard said smoothly, his voice carrying the calm, terrifying authority of a man who billed eight hundred dollars an hour to dismantle fortunes. "I’m glad you saved us the cost of a process server."
***
