Chapter 2 - The Secrets Beneath the Floorboards
The two local police officers—Chief Miller and a younger deputy named Henderson—halted just inside the foyer, their eyes darting between the open white casket, my weeping mother, and my rigid posture blocking Derek’s path.
“Mr. Vance?” Chief Miller asked, stepping forward with his hand resting cautiously on his service belt. “We received a 911 call reporting a suspicious death at this residence. What seems to be the problem?”
“My wife didn't commit suicide,” I said, my voice entirely steady despite the earthquake happening inside my chest. I pointed a finger directly at my brother, whose shoulders were visibly shaking. “My daughter witnessed a violent assault in our master bedroom three days ago. My mother and my aunt have systematically covered it up, lied to the authorities, and rushed an unauthorized burial while I was intentionally kept in communication blackout by my employer.”
Teresa let out a piercing, theatrical gasp, clutching her chest as if she were about to collapse. “Chief Miller, listen to him! He’s out of his mind with grief! The medical examiner already signed the preliminary death certificate stating acute asphyxiation consistent with self-harm!”
“The medical examiner was my aunt’s business associate,” I countered coldly, turning my gaze to Aunt Beatrice, who had quickly slipped her phone back into her pocket and assumed an air of injured professional dignity. “Chief, look at my brother’s face. Look at the left side of his cheek.”
Chief Miller stepped closer, narrowing his eyes as he examined Derek. “Mr. Vance, turn around and face the light.”
Derek refused to move, his jaw clenched tight.
“Do it,” Chief Miller ordered, his tone shifting into official authority.
When Derek reluctantly turned, the red, swollen handprint of a desperate, fighting woman was glaringly apparent under the foyer light.
“That’s... that’s an allergic reaction,” Derek mumbled, his voice cracking miserably. “I ran into a low branch in the backyard while chopping firewood.”
“Wood chopping in full mourning black suit and patent leather shoes?” Deputy Henderson remarked dryly, pulling a small notebook and pen from his breast pocket.
“Chief Miller,” my father’s strained, gravelly voice suddenly echoed from the corner of the room.
Everyone turned in absolute astonishment. In the two years since his stroke, my father had barely spoken more than three intelligible words a day. Now, gripping the left armrest of his wheelchair with white-knuckled intensity, he was leaning forward, his face purple with exertion.
“Ar... Arthur,” Teresa choked out, her eyes widening in sheer terror. “Don't... don't listen to him, Chief, he’s senile—!”
“Shut up, Teresa,” my father rasped, his voice cutting through the room like a rusty saw. He used his left hand to claw frantically at the thick foam cushion beneath his thighs. With a ragged groan, he flipped the cushion forward.
Resting underneath it, tucked neatly inside a heavy brown leather folder, was a stack of legal documents, a smashed cell phone with a shattered screen, and a small, digital voice recorder with its red recording light blinking silently in standby mode.
“Father...” Derek whispered, taking a desperate step forward.
“Get away from him!” Chief Miller commanded, stepping in front of Derek and signaling Deputy Henderson to secure the room. Henderson rushed forward, kneeling beside my father’s wheelchair and carefully lifting the leather folder from the seat.
My father slumped back against his chair, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his forehead. He raised his functional left arm, pointing one trembling finger directly at Aunt Beatrice, then at Teresa, and finally upward toward the third floor.
“They... they took her phone,” my father wheezed out, every word a monumental physical struggle. “They locked her in... to steal... the house.”
Chief Miller took the leather folder from Henderson, opened the top document, and scanned the first page. As his eyes tracked the lines of text, the color drained from his face. He looked up at me, his expression grim.
“Mr. Vance... this isn't just a domestic dispute. This is a property deed transfer agreement, signed under duress, assigning ownership of The Anchorage and all residential holdings to an umbrella shell corporation managed by... Sterling Capital.”
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My breath caught. Sterling Capital? The very same multi-billion-dollar private equity firm where my boss, Mr. Vance—no relation to us, despite the shared surname—exercised absolute corporate dictatorship over my life and employment.
“Search the third floor,” I said quietly, the pieces of the grand conspiracy finally snapping together in my mind with terrifying precision. “Now.”
