Sisterly Concern

Elena stood her ground, but her knees were water. Arthur’s progression toward her was slow, agonizingly deliberate. The rubber wheels whispered on the carpet, a sound more menacing than any shout.

“Move,” she said again, her voice cracking.

He kept coming. His eyes were locked on her hand, on the loupe she still clutched like a weapon. He didn't want to hurt her, she realized with a jolt. He wanted to take the evidence. He wanted to erase the mistake he had made in 1990.

She backed up until her heels hit the edge of the bed. There was nowhere else to go.

A door slammed downstairs.

“Dad?” Julian’s voice boomed up the stairwell. “Elena? Where the hell is everyone?”

Arthur stopped. His head snapped toward the hallway. The spell of his silent menace broke, replaced by the immediate, frantic need to maintain his facade. He couldn't let Julian see him like this—strong, mobile, capable. He had built his power on frailty.

He looked back at Elena. One last glare. A promise of retribution. Then he spun the wheelchair around with shocking speed and rolled back into the shadows of the hallway, just as Julian’s heavy footsteps hit the landing.

Elena shoved the loupe into her pocket next to the forgery. She smoothed her sweater, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Julian appeared in the doorway. He was disheveled, his expensive tie loosened, his hands covered in gray dust from the study. He looked wild.

“There you are,” he snapped. He scanned the room, his eyes darting to the armoire, the bed, the open window. “Where is he? Where’s Dad?”

“I don’t know,” Elena lied. The lie tasted like copper. “I was looking for him.”

Julian scoffed. He marched into the room, kicking the doorstop aside. “He’s probably hiding. Playing games. He knows I’m onto him.”

He stopped in front of the armoire. He saw the open file box on the floor.

“What’s this?” he demanded.

“Old receipts,” Elena said quickly. “Roof repairs.”

Julian kicked the box. Papers spilled out. “Useless. It’s all useless. He didn't hide money in receipts, Elena. He hid it in shell companies. In offshore accounts.”

He turned to her, his expression shifting from anger to suspicion. “Why are you in here? You’re supposed to be counting spoons.”

“I heard a noise,” she said. “I thought maybe he fell.”

“He didn't fall. He’s plotting.” Julian ran a hand through his hair. “I found a safe in the study floor. Empty. Drilled out years ago. He moved everything.”

He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time. He saw the tension in her shoulders, the way she was guarding her pocket.

“What did you find?” he asked softly.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me, Elena. You’re terrible at it.” He took a step toward her. “You found something. Is it a will? A deed?”

“It’s nothing, Julian. Just garbage.”

“Show me.”

He reached for her.

“Julian!”

Sarah’s voice cut through the tension. She was standing in the doorway, still in her beige trench coat, looking pale and shaken. She wasn't looking at Julian. She was looking at Elena.

“Sarah?” Julian frowned. “What are you doing here? I thought you were leaving.”

“I came back,” Sarah said, her voice tight. “I forgot… my phone charger.”

It was a lie. A terrible one. Sarah never forgot anything.

She walked into the room, placing herself between Julian and Elena. She looked at her brother with a strange intensity.

“Leave her alone, Julian. She’s just tired.”

Julian stared at his sister. “What is going on with you two? You’re acting like… like conspirators.”

Sarah laughed, a jagged sound. “Don’t be paranoid, Jules. It’s unflattering.”

She turned to Elena. Her eyes dropped to Elena’s pocket, then came back up. There was a message there. A warning. Or maybe an offer.

“Go downstairs, Elena,” Sarah said. “Make some tea. Julian and I need to talk about… Dad’s care.”

Elena hesitated. She didn't trust Sarah. Sarah had seen the letters. Sarah knew the truth.

“Go,” Sarah urged, her voice dropping to a whisper.

Elena edged around Julian. He watched her go, his eyes narrowed, but he didn't stop her. He was too distracted by Sarah’s sudden reappearance.

Elena hurried into the hall. She glanced toward the service elevator. The door was closed. The indicator light was dark. Arthur was gone. Back to his room? Or hiding somewhere else, waiting for another chance?

She reached the stairs. She needed to get out. She needed to get the forgery and the letters to a safe place.

“You’re acting just like Mom did before the end, Elena,” Sarah called out from the bedroom, her voice loud enough to carry. “Paranoid.”

It wasn't an insult. It was a code.

*Paranoid.* That’s what Arthur had called Meredith when she started hiding things. When she started suspecting him.

Sarah wasn't mocking her. She was telling her she understood.

Elena gripped the banister. She wasn't alone anymore. But having Sarah as an ally was almost as dangerous as having her as an enemy.

She started down the stairs. The front door was still unlocked. She could just leave. Run to her car. Drive until the gas tank was empty.

But she couldn't. The shoebox was still under the guest room mattress.

She froze.

Under the mattress. Where Sarah had seen her put it.

If Sarah was distracting Julian… was it to help Elena? Or was it to keep him occupied while she retrieved the leverage for herself?

Elena turned around. She looked back up the dark staircase. The bedroom door was closed now. She could hear the murmur of their voices, arguing.

She had to get the box. Now.

She crept back up the stairs, skipping the squeaky board. She bypassed the master bedroom and slipped into the guest room.

She dropped to her knees and lifted the dust ruffle.

The space under the bed was empty.

The box was gone.

Panic, cold and sharp, seized her. She felt around blindly. Nothing. Just dust bunnies and the cold hardwood floor.

Sarah hadn't come back for a phone charger. She hadn't come back to help.

She had come back for the proof.

Elena stood up, her head spinning. Sarah had the letters. Elena had the forgery. They were in a standoff, two sisters holding half of a bomb.

And downstairs, the front door opened again. Heavy boots. A radio squawk.

“Police!” a voice shouted. “Mr. Vance? We had a 911 call.”

Julian hadn't called them. Sarah hadn't called them.

Elena realized with a sick feeling of inevitability who had dialed the phone.

Arthur had called the police on his own children.