Chapter 2: Shadows in the Parlor

Aunt Beatrice stepped forward, her floral-patterned blouse bunched tightly across her chest. She placed herself squarely between me and Richard, her eyes narrowed.

“Eleanor, this has gone on long enough,” she said, her voice shaking slightly.

Richard stood behind her, a faint smirk touching his lips. He shuffled his feet, subtly urging her on.

“You’ve been living here, free as a bird, since Margaret passed,” Beatrice continued, her gaze fixed on me. “Pretending to mourn while you just live off her good name and all she left behind.”

I held the faded yellow envelope with the deed, still standing by the open safe. The scent of old paper and dust hung in the air.

“And don’t think I don’t know,” Beatrice added, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Richard told me all about it. That $35,000, Eleanor. The money for your mother’s specialized care.”

My hand tightened on the envelope. The accusation was a familiar ache, one Richard had undoubtedly cultivated over years.

“He said you took it,” she finished, her eyes flicking to Richard for confirmation. “Straight from the trust fund. Embezzled it, he called it. Just vanished.”

Richard nodded slowly, a picture of false concern. “We just want what’s right, Eleanor. Mom would have wanted her funds managed properly.”

My jaw clenched, but I kept my voice steady. “Beatrice, that money was never for Mom’s ‘specialized care.’ That was a fabrication.”

She scoffed. “A fabrication? Richard has been worried about it for years! Telling me how you bled our mother dry.”

I looked directly at Richard. His eyes darted away, fixed on a spot on the floorboards.

I reached back into the cool, dark interior of the wall safe. My fingers found the spine of a ledger, thick and bound in dark leather. It felt heavy in my hand.

I pulled it out and laid it flat on the dining table, the heavy thud echoing in the sudden quiet of the parlor. Its pages were filled with careful, spidery script, tracking every cent. It was from First National Bank, dated November 1998.

Beatrice’s eyes, once accusatory, now flickered with a hint of uncertainty. She leaned over the table, trying to make out the details.

Richard’s smirk had vanished completely.