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 faint wail of distant sirens still seemed to echo in the halls of the Holloway estate, a ghostly reminder of Julian St. Clair’s hasty retreat. But Victoria, ever the master of redirection, was already pivoting.
“You think this changes anything, Jonathan?” she hissed, her face contorted with rage as I helped my mother to her feet. “He was a means to an end. There are other lawyers. Better lawyers.”
My mother clutched my arm. “Victoria, please. This house is family.”
“This house is mine, Mama!” Victoria snapped, her voice cracking with the strain of suppressed fury. “You’ve always favored him! Always the quiet, sensitive one. The one who cleans books!”
Then, with a sudden, vicious movement, she blocked the entrance to the master wing, where my mother’s bedroom was. “You want to play hardball, Jonathan? Fine.”
She pushed my mother roughly toward the rear of the house. “Mama, you’ll be staying in the garden suite tonight. It’s… quieter. More secluded.”
My mother stumbled, her breath catching. “Victoria, no!”
“It’s for your own good,” Victoria sneered, her eyes glittering. “Can’t have you… interfering. Or wandering.”
She slammed the heavy pocket doors to the master wing shut, the sound reverberating through the house. Then, she pulled a small silver key from her pocket and locked them, pocketing the key with a triumphant flourish.
“You really think you can lock her out of her own room?” I demanded, my voice low and dangerous.
“I think I can do whatever I want in my own house,” Victoria retorted, her chin high. “And speaking of my house, I’m hosting an impromptu gathering this evening.”
She retrieved her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. “A small cocktail reception. Just a few close friends. The Atlanta Heritage Board members, actually.”
My blood ran cold. The Heritage Board. Thirty of the most influential Black elite in Atlanta, the very people whose opinions Victoria lived and breathed for.
“You’re doing this now?” I asked, incredulous. “After what just happened?”
“Especially after what just happened,” she said, a wicked glint in her eye. “I need to reinforce my position. Show everyone who truly runs the Holloway estate. And you, Jonathan, will be conspicuous by your absence.”
She turned, already barking orders into her phone, arranging for caterers and florists to arrive within the hour. The speed of her escalation was dizzying, her desperation palpable.
“And just so we’re clear,” she added, pausing to look back at me, “Mama needs her rest. Any attempts to… disturb her, or create a scene, will result in consequences. Social consequences, Jonathan. The kind you can’t bind away in a book.”
Hours later, the house buzzed with activity. White-gloved staff hurried through the grand halls, arranging floral displays and polishing already gleaming silver. The scent of expensive hors d’oeuvres mingled with the perfume of fresh lilies.
My mother sat silently in the garden suite, a prisoner in her own home. I tried to speak to her through the locked door, to offer reassurance, but her voice was a strained whisper.
“Just let it go, Jonathan,” she pleaded. “Please. I just want peace.”
But peace wasn’t an option. Not when Victoria was orchestrating her ultimate power play, inviting thirty prominent board members to witness her public coronation. The very act of hosting them, without my mother’s consent, was a declaration of war.
I watched from the shadows of the library as the first luxury cars began to pull up the long driveway, their headlights cutting through the growing dusk. Victoria, regal in a sapphire gown, stood at the top of the marble steps, greeting her esteemed guests with practiced smiles and air kisses.
She was playing for keeps. And I knew, with chilling certainty, that she intended to sign those final transfer papers tonight, sealing her control over the Holloway legacy, before anyone, including Dr. DuBose, could truly intervene.
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