She is seventy-eight years old, Jonathan, and room and board in this enclave aren't free, my older sister Victoria said, wiping her manicured nails without looking up from her tablet.
The grand oak doors of the Holloway estate felt heavier than usual as I pushed them open. The rain had subsided, leaving the air thick with the scent of wet earth and jasmine. Inside, the hushed elegance of the foyer offered no comfort.
Instead, a low murmur of voices drifted from the drawing room. Victoria’s distinctive laugh cut through the sound.
I walked toward it, my stomach tightening. The scene inside hit me like a physical blow.
Aunt Camille and Aunt Beatrice, my mother’s elder sisters, sat stiffly on the antique velvet settee. Their faces, usually warm and welcoming, were drawn into severe lines. Victoria, perched on the edge of a gilded armchair, held court, a pristine lace handkerchief dabbing at her dry eyes.
She saw me and visibly straightened, a performative gasp escaping her lips.
“Jonathan! There you are!” she cried, her voice a carefully calibrated mix of relief and distress.
Aunt Camille, ever the matriarch, folded her arms across her chest. “Jonathan, this is not how we conduct family matters. Where have you been?”
Her tone was frigid. It was an interrogation, not a greeting.
“I was trying to find a way to get my mother out of Victoria’s clutches,” I retorted, stepping further into the room.
Victoria’s eyes widened, a theatrical expression of hurt. “Clutches? Jonathan, how could you? After everything I’ve done for Mama!”
Aunt Beatrice, usually more pliable, spoke up, her voice surprisingly firm. “Your sister has been very concerned, Jonathan. Very concerned indeed.”
Victoria produced a tissue from her sleeve, dabbing again at her eyes. “He’s been… unhinged, Aunties. Disappearing, making wild accusations.”
She looked directly at me, her gaze cold. “And the missing funds, Jonathan. How do you explain the $120,000 withdrawn from Mama’s personal trust account just last week?”
My jaw dropped. “What are you talking about? I haven’t touched Mama’s trust!”
“We have the bank statements, Jonathan,” Aunt Camille said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. “Victoria showed them to us. A substantial withdrawal. With your access codes.”
My mind raced. Access codes? My mother had given me temporary access months ago to help her pay a medical bill online, something Victoria had surely exploited. This was a setup, carefully planned.
Victoria leaned forward, her voice dropping to a stage whisper that carried through the silent room. “He’s been under a lot of stress, I think. With his… quaint little bookbinding hobby. Perhaps the pressure got to him.”
The aunts exchanged solemn glances. They believed her. Victoria had painted me as mentally unstable, a thief. The quiet, bookish son who couldn’t handle real-world responsibilities.
“We need to consider Mama’s well-being,” Aunt Beatrice said, twisting a ring on her finger. “Victoria suggested a… temporary leave of absence for you, Jonathan, while we sort this out. For everyone’s peace of mind.”
“A temporary leave?” I stared at them, aghast. “You’re cutting me off? Based on her lies?”
Victoria stood, smoothing her silk blouse. “It’s for your own good, brother. And Mama’s protection. We can’t have her trust fund raided by someone experiencing… delusions.”
The implication hung in the air: I was the danger. Not Victoria, who had my mother scrubbing floors.
Aunt Camille rose slowly, her gaze unwavering. “We’ve made arrangements, Jonathan. For now, all family accounts will be monitored. You will not have access.”
It was an ambush. Victoria hadn’t just threatened me; she had systematically isolated me, turning the very people who should have supported me against me.
I stood there, surrounded by the opulent silence of my ancestral home, realizing just how completely alone I was. My only comfort was the small, damp business card tucked into my pocket.
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