My daughter-in-law Chloe handed me a glass of water and told my son I was losing my mind.
The ringing of my doorbell pulled me from my silent contemplation of Sarah’s words. It was Ethan. He wasn’t alone. Two burly men in blue scrubs stood behind him, carrying a folded gurney. Medical transport assistants. My blood ran cold.
“Dad,” Ethan said, his voice clipped, devoid of the previous sorrow. He motioned to the men. “These gentlemen are here to take you to the private evaluation clinic in Boston. We need to get you proper care.”
I stood my ground, my hands clenching at my sides. “No, Ethan. You can’t. Not yet.”
“Dad, we’ve been over this,” he insisted, a desperate edge to his voice. “Martha’s stunt, your accusations… you’re not well. This is for your own good.”
“Just thirty minutes,” I pleaded, my gaze fixed on him. “Give me thirty minutes. Sarah has found everything. The real truth. Not here. At your house. Let her present her findings to all of us. Then, if you still think I’m delusional, I’ll go willingly.”
Ethan hesitated, running a hand through his hair. He looked at the transport assistants, then back at me. A deep weariness settled on his face. He knew my resistance was endless.
Just then, Chloe’s sleek black car pulled up to the curb. She emerged, impeccably dressed, a slight, confident smile playing on her lips. She had undoubtedly orchestrated this, watching from a distance, confident that Arthur had reached the end of his resistance.
“What’s going on here?” she asked, her voice light, but her eyes held a sharp, challenging glint as she looked at me.
Ethan quickly explained my request. Chloe listened, her smile never wavering. She glanced at her watch.
“Thirty minutes?” she mused, a dismissive tone in her voice. “Fine. Let him have his final flourish. We can put an end to this drama once and for all. Let’s go to the house.”
A heavy rain began to fall as we made our way to the Pendelton estate. Drops splattered against the car windows, mirroring the tension that hung thick and suffocating in the air. The familiar living room, usually a place of warm gatherings, now felt like a courtroom. Ethan and Chloe sat stiffly on the sofa, their faces pale. Mrs. Jenkins, who had somehow followed us, stood quietly by the door, another witness.
A moment later, Sarah Lindqvist arrived. She walked in, her rain-streaked coat glistening, carrying a thick leather binder that looked as heavy as a tombstone.
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