Beatrice's Fall

The warehouse smelled of ozone and floor wax, a sterile scent that barely covered the underlying rot of the river nearby. Beatrice adjusted the collar of her stolen coat, trying to hide the hospital bracelet she hadn't managed to cut off yet. She walked past the rows of chairs set up for the auction, past the velvet ropes, past the guards who watched her with dead, shark-like eyes.

She found Silas Vane in the glass-walled office overlooking the floor. He was adjusting his cufflinks, staring down at the workers moving Lot 45—Constance’s grand piano—onto the stage.

"You're late," Beatrice said, pushing the door open.

Vane didn't turn around. "And you look terrible, my dear. Hospitals clearly don't agree with you."

"I did what you asked," Beatrice said, her voice tight. "I told you where the box was. I told you about the letters. I kept them distracted while you moved the inventory."

"You did," Vane agreed, finally turning. He looked immaculate, a silver-haired god in a bespoke suit. "And yet, Elena is still loose. And the boy is... unaccounted for."

"That's not my fault," Beatrice snapped. "I upheld my end. Now I want mine."

She held out her hand.

"The settlement. Ten percent of the gross. That was the deal."

Vane smiled. It was the same smile he used when he foreclosed on a widow.

"Of course," he said. "I have the paperwork right here."

He picked up a folder from the desk and slid it across the glass surface.

Beatrice opened it. Her eyes scanned the columns of numbers.

*Gross Estimate: $45,000,000.*

Her heart leaped. Four and a half million. It was enough. Enough to leave Hawthorne Manor, enough to leave the memories, enough to buy a life where she didn't have to be the disappointing daughter.

Then she turned the page to the deductions.

*Legal Retainer (Emergency): $2,000,000.*
*Security Services (Veritas): $1,500,000.*
*Crisis Management/PR: $750,000.*
*Asset Recovery Fees: $500,000.*
*Outstanding Personal Debts (B. Hawthorne): $800,000.*

She flipped to the bottom line.

*Net Payout: $14.50.*

Beatrice stared at the number. Fourteen dollars and fifty cents.

"This is a joke," she whispered.

"It's accounting," Vane said, pouring himself a glass of water. "War is expensive, Beatrice. And you have been a very expensive liability."

"I helped you!" she screamed, throwing the folder at him. Papers fluttered to the floor like dead leaves. "I sold out my own brother for you! I betrayed Elena!"

"You betrayed them because you are weak," Vane said, his voice dropping to a terrifying chill. "And because you are greedy. You thought you could trade loyalty for luxury. But loyalty has a market value, Beatrice. And yours is zero."

He pressed a button on his desk phone.

"Security to the office."

"You can't do this," Beatrice said, backing away. "I know things. I know about the tunnel. I know about the girls."

"Who will believe you?" Vane asked. "You're the disgruntled sister. The addict. The woman who just broke out of a psychiatric hold."

The door opened. Two guards stepped in. They were huge, blocking out the light from the warehouse floor.

"Escort Ms. Hawthorne to the exit," Vane said. "If she returns, arrest her for trespassing."

One of the guards grabbed her arm. His grip was bruising.

"Get off me!" Beatrice shrieked.

She looked at Vane. He wasn't even watching her anymore. He was looking back at the piano, checking it for dust.

"You're a monster," she spat.

"I'm a businessman," Vane said. "Goodbye, Beatrice."

They dragged her out. They didn't walk her; they carried her, her heels dragging on the polished concrete. They hauled her through the maze of her family's possessions—the silver she had polished, the art she had grown up with, the legacy she had tried to sell.

They threw her out the side door into the alley.

Beatrice landed hard on the wet pavement, scraping her hands. The door slammed shut behind her. The lock clicked.

She sat there in the sleet, shivering. She had no coat. No money. No family.

She stood up, her knees shaking with a rage that felt like magma.

She reached into her pocket.

She had lied to Elena. She hadn't left her phone at the hospital. She had kept it hidden.

She pulled it out. The screen was cracked, but it still worked.

She had one contact left. One person who might still pick up, not out of love, but out of necessity.

She dialed.

"Elena," she whispered into the wind. "Don't hang up."