Chapter 23 - Bloodlines and Counterfeits
Before I could answer, the heavy front door rattled. A sharp, frantic banging echoed through the foyer, followed by the sound of glass splintering on the back patio.
"Stay here," I snapped, reaching for the shotgun propped against the pantry counter.
"Don't flatter yourself, child. It isn't the police," Constance murmured, turning another page of the diary without looking up. "The men I saw following your sister's sedan down the highway have arrived. It seems your family wasn't entirely discrete when they fled this morning."
I bolted toward the side hallway, peering through the leaded glass window that overlooked the kitchen garden.
Two men dressed in civilian tactical gear were moving along the tree line, their faces obscured by black balaclavas. In their hands were suppressed submachine guns. These weren't country deputies, and they certainly weren't Vanessa’s greasy divorce lawyers. They moved with military efficiency, clearing corners and flanking the low stone wall that bordered the cellar entrance.
Suddenly, a hysterical scream tore through the mountain fog outside.
"Let go of me! Gerald, do something, you bastard! They’re going to kill us!"
It was Vanessa.
I sprinted toward the front parlor, peering through the heavy velvet curtains. Parked haphazardly across the front lawn, tires sunk deep into the churned mud, was my mother’s silver Lexus. Both driver and passenger doors hung wide open.
Kneeling in the gravel beneath the blinding headlights of Constance’s black SUVs were Gerald, my mother Eleanor, and Vanessa. Gerald’s face was bruised purple and swollen shut around his left eye; his expensive button-down shirt was shredded and soaked in mud. Eleanor was weeping uncontrollably, clutching her designer handbag like a shield, while Vanessa shrieked as a man in an unmarked vest dragged her by her hair toward the front steps.
"They followed them back," I breathed, turning toward Constance, who had strolled casually into the parlor, her cane held lightly at her side.
"Gerald tried to run to his offshore contact," Constance explained, her voice devoid of any human empathy. "My associates intercepted them at the county toll plaza. I couldn't allow them to leave the state before our business was concluded. After all... Gerald signed my name on three counterfeit promissory notes to secure his loans. A Blackwood does not tolerate amateur forgery."
The front door burst open. One of Constance's private operators shoved the three trembling family members into the entryway. They collapsed in a heap onto the hardwood floor, sobbing, bleeding, and gasping for air.
Vanessa looked up, her mascara running in black rivers down her cheeks. Her eyes locked onto Constance.
Vanessa’s jaw dropped. The arrogance, the smug entitlement that she had worn like armor for thirty years dissolved into utter, paralyzed horror.
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"A-Aunt... Constance?" Vanessa stammered, her voice shaking violently. "You're... Grandma said you died in 1989. She swore on her life..."
"Your grandmother was a compulsive liar, my dear," Constance said smoothly, taking a single step forward and resting the silver tip of her cane directly against Gerald’s collarbone. "And she raised a sniveling thief."
