Chapter 50: The Weak Link

I sat across from Richard in the breakfast nook, buttering a piece of toast with the precision of a surgeon. The sun streamed in through the bay windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the sheen of sweat on my husband's upper lip.

He was reading the *Wall Street Journal*, but he hadn't turned the page in ten minutes. His knuckles were white where he gripped the paper.

"More coffee?" I asked, lifting the silver pot.

Richard flinched. "No. No, thank you."

"Are you sure? You look tired." I poured myself a cup, the dark liquid swirling. "Did you have trouble sleeping?"

He lowered the paper. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red. "Just stress. The Marina project."

"I thought Marcus said the financing was secure," I said innocently. "Didn't he handle the bridge loans?"

Richard’s gaze darted to the side. "Marcus is... handling it. It's complicated."

"Everything with this family is complicated, isn't it?" I took a sip of coffee. "I was looking through some old photos last night. For the twins' project. Did you know I couldn't find a single picture of you from 2002?"

The silence stretched, thin and brittle.

"2002?" Richard cleared his throat. "I told you, Elena. I was backpacking. Europe. I didn't take many photos."

"Right. Europe." I set the cup down. "It's funny, though. I found an old postcard in one of the books in the library. From Las Vegas. Dated June 2002."

Richard went very still. "Vegas?"

"Yes. It was addressed to you. But the handwriting... it looked like Eleanor's."

I watched him. I watched the pulse jump in his neck. I watched the fear bloom in his eyes.

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.

"I need a drink," he muttered.

"It's 8:30 in the morning, Richard."

"I need a drink," he repeated, walking to the wet bar in the corner of the room. He poured himself a generous measure of scotch, his hands shaking so badly the bottle clinked against the glass.

I turned in my chair to face him.

"Was Catherine with you?" I asked softly. "In Vegas?"

He froze, his back to me.

"Catherine?" he said, his voice tight. "Why would Catherine be in Vegas? She was... she was in the clinic. In Switzerland."

"Right. The clinic." I stood up and walked over to him. I placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched away as if I had burned him.

"You know, Richard," I said, leaning close to his ear. "I always wondered why you were so insistent on the closed adoption for Leo. Why you wouldn't let me see the original birth certificate."

He spun around, his face pale. "Elena, drop it."

"Drop what? I'm just asking questions. Innocent questions."

"Nothing about you is innocent anymore," he hissed. "I see the way you look at Mother. I see the way you look at me."

"And how do I look at you?"

"Like you're waiting for us to die."

I smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

"Maybe I am," I whispered. "Or maybe I'm just waiting for the truth."

"The truth?" He laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "You can't handle the truth, Elena. You think you're smart? You think you're clever because you found a few papers? You have no idea what we've done. What we had to do."

"Tell me," I said. "Tell me about the baby. The first one."

He slammed his glass down on the counter. Ideally, it would have shattered for dramatic effect. Instead, it just bounced, splashing amber liquid onto the marble.

"There was no baby!" he shouted. "It was a mistake! A medical anomaly!"

"Is that what you call your son?" I asked. "A medical anomaly?"

He stared at me, his chest heaving. He looked trapped. Cornered.

"He was sick," Richard whispered. "He wasn't going to make it. Mother said it was better this way. A clean break."

"So you gave him away."

"We saved him!" Richard yelled. "We gave him a life away from this... this poison! Away from Eleanor!"

"And what about the second one?" I asked. "What about Leo?"

Richard’s face crumpled. He grabbed the bottle and poured another drink. He downed it in one gulp. Then another.

Three scotches in twenty minutes.

"Leo was... different," he said, his voice slurring slightly. "He was perfect. I couldn't let him go. I couldn't lose another one."

"So you bought him," I said. "You bought your own son from your mother."

"I saved him," Richard said, tears welling in his eyes. "I saved him from her. And I gave him to you. Because I knew you would love him. I knew you would protect him."

He looked at me, pleading for understanding. For forgiveness.

"I did it for you, Elena. I did it all for you."

"No," I said, backing away. "You did it for yourself. You did it because you're a coward."

I turned and walked out of the kitchen.

I had what I needed. He hadn't denied it. He had justified it.

And in his drunken state, he was sloppy. Vulnerable.

I went to the library. I had the combination. I had the intent.

But as I reached for the frame of Silas Blackwood's portrait, I heard a sound from the hallway.

The front door opening.

"Richard?" A deep voice boomed. "We need to talk."

It wasn't Marcus. It wasn't a servant.

It was the police.