The Lawyer

The footsteps stopped at the open door of the guest room. Elena stood frozen, the heavy bronze base of the Tiffany lamp still clutched in her hand like a weapon, the shade overturned on the bedspread.

Julian stood in the doorway. He wasn't wet from the rain, and he wasn't holding a tire iron. He was wearing a cashmere coat that cost more than Elena’s car, and he was smiling.

But it wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile of a man who had brought a sledgehammer to a knife fight.

"I told you," he said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. "I told you to stop digging."

He stepped aside. A woman walked in past him.

She was sharp angles and expensive tailoring, her gray hair pulled back in a severe chignon. She held a leather briefcase in one hand and a manila envelope in the other.

"Elena Vance?" the woman asked. She didn't wait for an answer. "I'm Patricia Sterling. I represent the estate of Arthur Vance."

"I know who you are," Elena said, her grip tightening on the lamp base. Sterling was Arthur’s fixer. The woman who made zoning violations and paternity suits disappear. "Get out of my room."

"It's not your room," Sterling said. She placed the envelope on the dresser, right next to the dismantled lamp. "It's an asset of the estate. An asset you are currently vandalizing."

She gestured to the scattered pieces of the lamp. The screws. The felt pad. The hollow bronze stem.

"Destruction of property," Sterling noted, her eyes cold. "Theft. Attempted embezzlement."

"I haven't stolen anything," Elena said.

"We have a full inventory," Julian cut in, stepping closer. He looked at the lamp, then at Elena. His eyes were feverish, too bright. "We know exactly what’s in this house, Elena. And we know what’s missing."

"You mean the evidence?" Elena asked. "The proof that Dad is a monster?"

"I mean the assets," Julian hissed. "The leverage."

Sterling cleared her throat. "Ms. Vance, I have a court order here granting temporary executorship to your brother, effective immediately due to your... erratic behavior. It also grants us the right to secure all property on the premises."

"You can't just walk in here—"

"We can," Sterling said. "And we have. The police are on their way to escort you off the property. But before you leave, we need to ensure you aren't removing any estate items."

She looked pointedly at Elena’s tote bag on the floor.

"Search it," Julian said.

"You need a warrant," Elena said, backing up until her legs hit the mattress.

"I don't need a warrant," Julian said. "I own the house. I own the bag. I own *you*, Elena. Dad made sure of that."

He lunged for the bag.

Elena dropped the lamp base. It hit the floor with a heavy, dull thud. She tried to grab the strap of her tote, but Julian was faster. He ripped it from her hands, dumping the contents onto the bed.

Clothes. Toiletries. Her notebook.

And the shoebox of letters.

Julian ignored the letters. He swept them aside, scattering the envelopes across the duvet. He grabbed her wallet, shaking it open. He tore through the side pockets of the bag.

"Where is it?" he muttered. "Where is the key?"

Elena’s heart stopped.

He knew.

He wasn't looking for jewelry. He wasn't looking for money. He knew about the lamp. He knew Arthur hid keys in the furniture.

Julian turned to her, his face twisted in a snarl. He grabbed her wrist, his fingers digging into the bruise he had left there days ago.

"It's not in the bag," he said to Sterling.

He looked at Elena, his eyes dropping to her pockets. To her clenched fist.

"Search her," he ordered.

Sterling stepped forward. "Ms. Vance, please empty your pockets."

Elena didn't move. She couldn't. The small silver key was burning a hole in her palm, sharp edges biting into her skin.

Julian stepped closer, invading her space, sucking the air out of the room. He leaned down, his voice a whisper against her ear.

"You think you're clever," he said. "But you forget. I grew up in this house too. I know all the hiding spots."

He grabbed her hand. He pried her fingers open.

Elena gasped, bracing herself for the loss, for the end.

But her hand was empty.

Julian stared at her palm. He looked at the floor. He looked at the bed.

"Where is it?" he screamed.

Elena looked past him, at the nightstand. At the half-drunk cup of cold coffee sitting amidst the wreckage of the lamp. The dark liquid was still, undisturbed.

Julian followed her gaze. He saw the cup.

He reached for it.

"Don't," Elena said.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Julian smiled. He picked up the mug. He didn't drink it. He didn't pour it out.

He looked into the dark liquid, and then he looked back at her.

"You really are his daughter," he said.

He tilted the cup.