Chapter 8 - The Spy in the Camp
One sunny afternoon in early April, a sleek black town car pulled into my gravel driveway in Savannah. The driver opened the rear door, and out stepped Marcus, my investigator, accompanied by a tall, elegant woman in her early forties whom I had known for nearly twenty years: Brenda, Arthur’s younger sister.
“Evelyn!” Brenda cried, rushing forward and throwing her arms around me.
We held each other on the front porch for a long, quiet minute. Brenda was the only person in the family who had inherited Arthur’s deep sense of integrity. When Grant had started his campaign of cruelty, Brenda had severed contact with him entirely.
“Look at you,” Brenda said, stepping back to admire my vibrant linen dress and sun-kissed cheeks. “You look ten years younger!”
“Freedom agrees with me, Brenda,” I smiled, leading her into the cool, shaded parlor. “Come have some iced mint tea.”
As we sat among the familiar mahogany furniture, Brenda opened her leather handbag and produced a thick stack of papers.
“I visited Grant last week,” Brenda said quietly, her eyes darkening. “I wanted to see Sadie and Owen with my own eyes to make sure they were surviving that awful environment.”
“And how are the children?” I asked, my voice tightening with genuine maternal concern.
“Sadie and Owen are remarkably resilient,” Brenda assured me. “The trust fund you set up is working flawlessly. Their school tuition, uniforms, books, and even their summer camp fees are paid directly by the trustees. Grant and Paige can’t touch a dime, which is driving Paige completely insane. But the children are well-fed and thriving at school.”
“And Grant?”
Brenda took a slow breath. “He’s a broken man, Evelyn. When I walked into that tiny apartment, the smell of cheap microwave dinners and grease was overpowering. He was sitting on a folding chair in his stained warehouse uniform, staring at the television. He’s lost thirty pounds. His hair is going completely gray.”
“Does he still blame me?”
“At first, he tried to scream at me, claiming you ruined his life,” Brenda replied. “He said you were a heartless monster who abandoned your own blood over a holiday dispute. But then Paige started screaming at him from the kitchen, blaming him for throwing the turkey in the first place! She screamed that if he hadn't lost his temper like a wild animal, they would already be living in the Victorian house with all your money.”
I shook my head slowly. “A house built on quicksand will always collapse, Brenda. They didn't love each other; they loved what they could steal together.”
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“Grant broke down, Evelyn,” Brenda continued softly. “Right in front of me. He fell to his knees on that linoleum floor and wept like a child. He said he finally realized that you were the only person in his entire life who ever truly loved him without asking for anything in return. He said he threw away his mother for a woman who despises him and a dream of wealth that was never his to take.”
I stared out the window at the moss-draped oaks. My chest didn't ache. I didn't feel rage, nor did I feel vindictive joy. I only felt the quiet, immovable peace of justice served.
