Chapter 2 - The Audacity of Inherited Greed
Dad tried to puff out his chest, stepping forward to reassert control the way he always had when he wanted to bully someone smaller. "Listen here, Vance. I don't give a damn about your little tape recorder. I am Arthur's only son. Eleanor is his daughter-in-law. By the laws of intestate succession in this state, when a patriarch dies without a spouse, the property immediately descends to his biological offspring. You can't keep a man from his lawful birthright with cheap parlor tricks!"
Mr. Vance didn't flinch. Instead, he unzipped his leather portfolio with deliberate, maddening slowness. The rasp of the brass zipper sounded like a whip cracking through the stagnant foyer air. From the velvet interior, he produced a heavy document bound in blue cardstock, sealed with crimson wax, and stamped with the raised crest of the county probate court.
"Intestate succession only applies when someone dies without a will, Richard," Mr. Vance murmured, gently tapping the blue folder against his palm. "And your father was a retired naval logistics officer. He never left a port without a certified manifest, and he certainly didn't leave this earth without settling his ledgers."
Mom lunged forward, her voice rising an octave. "That's impossible! Arthur promised this farm to Richard back in ninety-nine! We have family letters! We have history!"
"You had a daughter," Deputy Miller interjected from behind his folded arms. "And you dropped her on the porch like a sack of unwanted kittens when she was five years old because your lifestyle in Chicago couldn't accommodate day-care costs. Don't talk to us about history, Eleanor."
"That was a private family arrangement!" Mom hissed, her face contorting into an ugly red mask. "Arthur volunteered to take her! We were young, we were establishing Richard’s consulting firm, we were building a future for our family!"
"And Chloe?" I asked, looking straight at my younger sister, who was standing frozen on the bottom step, suddenly aware that the script wasn't going as planned. "Chloe was born two years after you dumped me here. You seemed to have plenty of money for private ballet lessons, Caribbean cruises, and a brand-new convertible for her sixteenth birthday. I know, because Grandpa saved every newspaper clipping and social media photo his old church friends sent him."
Chloe rolled her eyes, crossing her arms defensively. "Oh, please! Are you seriously playing the victim card after twenty years? You lived on a huge country estate! You had fresh air, horses next door, and an old man who waited on you hand and foot while my parents were grinding in the city! You had it easy, Clara. Don't act like you were Cinderella."
"Easy?" A dry laugh slipped from my throat. It wasn't bitter; it was just tired. "Grandpa broke his back growing sweet corn and fixing neighbors' tractors to pay for my school uniforms, Chloe. When my teeth came in crooked, he sold his vintage hunting rifle so I could get braces. You didn't leave me in paradise—you dumped me on an aging pensioner and prayed he wouldn't live long enough to demand child support."
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Dad waved his hand dismissively, his eyes fixed on the blue folder. "Enough of this sob story! Vance, read the damn document. How much did he leave us? We know the property was appraised at seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars last spring by the county tax board. We need to liquidate before the market dips."
Mr. Vance smiled—a thin, predatory smile that made Dad take an instinctive half-step back. "Oh, Richard. Your father didn't just write a will. He constructed a masterpiece. Why don't you all take a seat in the dining room? The movers can wait outside. Because what Arthur wrote about you isn't just a legal testament—it's an itemized reckoning."
