The sting of Eleanor’s plea, the way she had looked at me with such confusion and distress, continued to haunt me. Mark’s cruel manipulation had struck deep, making me question if my relentless pursuit of justice was indeed causing her more harm than good. I felt a crushing weight of guilt, despite knowing Mark was the true instigator.
I confided my renewed doubts to Evelyn later that evening. She listened intently, her expression unwavering.
“He’s trying to get inside your head, Sarah,” she stated plainly.
She poured us both another cup of tea, the clinking of the mugs a small, sharp sound in the quiet apartment. “It’s classic abuser tactics. Make you doubt yourself, make you feel guilty for fighting back. Don’t fall for it.”
“But she looked so distressed, Evelyn,” I murmured, staring into my tea. “He knows how vulnerable she is. And he used it.”
“Exactly,” Evelyn said, her voice firm. “He used her, Sarah. You didn’t cause her distress; he did, by putting her in that situation and then twisting it to blame you. That’s a crucial distinction.”
Her words were a much-needed anchor, preventing me from spiraling further into self-blame. Evelyn had a way of cutting through the emotional noise, laying bare the brutal facts.
“Any luck with the anonymous package?” I asked, trying to shift my focus from my lingering guilt.
Evelyn sighed, leaning back in her chair. “It’s a cold trail, I’m afraid. No fingerprints, no distinguishing marks on the envelope, nothing traceable through postal records.”
She gestured to a stack of papers on her desk. “I’ve been trying to cross-reference the locations in those photos with public records, surveillance cameras near Finch’s office, anything that might give us a hint as to who would have access to that kind of information.”
“So, you still think it’s an insider?” I asked.
“Most likely,” Evelyn confirmed. “Someone who works for Finch, or perhaps an associate who’s seen too much. Someone with a conscience, or maybe just someone who feels they’ve been cut out of the action.”
She drummed her fingers on her desk. “It’s tricky. If they’re trying to help you, they’re probably terrified of Mark and Finch. They won’t come forward unless they feel safe, or unless they’re pushed.”
I felt a new pang of worry. If someone was risking their safety to help me, what would happen if Mark found out? The stakes were getting higher, not just for my family, but for this unknown ally. The personal risk they were taking felt like a heavy burden.
“What if we put out a call for information?” I suggested. “An anonymous tip line, or something?”
Evelyn shook her head. “Too risky right now. It would tip off Mark and Finch that we have an informant, and they’d shut down faster than you can blink. We need to be surgical. We need to find *them*, not wait for them to come to us again.”
She opened her laptop, a map of Maine displayed on the screen. “I’m looking at all the properties Finch & Associates have handled in the last six months. See if there are any other suspicious undervaluation reports, or properties sold quickly and quietly.”
The methodical nature of Evelyn’s work was both reassuring and terrifying. Reassuring because it meant progress, terrifying because it highlighted the sheer scale of Mark’s enterprise. This wasn’t just a one-off scam; it was a pattern of behavior, a carefully constructed web of deceit woven by a man who showed no compunction about exploiting anyone, even his own family.
“This is going to take time, Sarah,” Evelyn warned, without looking up from her screen. “These things always do. Finch has been doing this for years; he knows how to cover his tracks. It’s not just about proving Mark’s involvement, it’s about unraveling the whole network.”
I nodded slowly, the grim reality settling in. My earlier impulse to race ahead, to expose Mark immediately, was tempered by Evelyn’s seasoned pragmatism. This was a long game, a careful unpicking of a complex tapestry of lies.
The thought of Eleanor’s fragile state returned. The image of her confused eyes, pleading with me to stop, was a powerful, nagging worry. Was this fight worth the cost to her? Was I doing the right thing by continuing to pursue justice, knowing it might cause her further distress? Mark had planted that seed of doubt deeply, and it was still flourishing.
“But we can’t stop,” I finally said, my voice quiet but firm. “Not after what he did to Mom. Not after what he tried to do to me. He can’t get away with this.”
Evelyn looked up from her screen, meeting my gaze. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. “That’s the spirit, kid. Justice isn’t pretty, but it’s worth fighting for. And sometimes, the personal wounds are what fuel the biggest fights.”
Her words resonated deeply. The personal wounds, the callous disregard for my mother’s well-being, the deliberate gaslighting—these were indeed the fuel. The fight wasn’t just for property or money anymore. It was for dignity, for truth, and for the preservation of what little peace my mother had left, even if that peace felt increasingly fragile.
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