Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Table
The heavy pounding on the oak front door echoed through the dining room like a thunderclap.
"Police Department!" a stern, booming voice called from the porch. "Open the door immediately!"
Inside the dining room, time seemed to freeze. The scent of roasted chicken and white wine was instantly cut by the iron tang of fresh blood. I sat frozen in my armchair, the white linen napkin pressed tightly against the deep gash above my left eyebrow. Red droplets leaked between my fingers, staining the cuff of my cardigan and dripping onto my lap.
Marissa stood four feet away, her chest heaving, her fingers still curled in the shape of the ceramic plate she had just hurled across the table. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide with a wild, erratic panic that was rapidly replacing her violent fury.
Behind her, the shattered fragments of blue ceramic lay scattered across the hardwood floor against the wainscoting, surrounded by a spray of white dust and sharp shards.
Marcus sprang into motion first. With a speed born of pure self-preservation, his hands darted across the table, grabbing the leather binder containing the seven-page "family property proposal." He shoved the papers deep into his briefcase and snapped the brass latches shut.
"Tyler, don't answer that yet!" Marcus hissed under his breath, his voice tight and frantic. He turned to his wife, Diane, who was sitting with her hands clasped over her mouth. "Diane, get a towel! Marissa, sit down and zip your mouth!"
Tyler stood frozen near the sideboard, his hands hovering in the air between his wife and me. His face was entirely drained of color. He looked at the blood running down the side of my face, then looked at his wife, whose knuckles were still white.
"Grandma..." Tyler rasped, his voice cracking like a terrified child's. "Grandma, you're... you're bleeding."
"I know I am, Tyler," I said. My voice didn't shake. It was low, quiet, and possessed a cold, crystalline clarity that surprised even me. "And the police are at the door because Helen called them when I couldn't answer my phone."
The heavy pounding came again, harder this time, rattling the glass panes beside the entryway.
"This is Officer Miller with the County Sheriff's Department! We have a welfare check request for an elderly female! If you do not open the door, we will force entry!"
Marcus stepped toward me, bending down so his face was inches from mine. His eyes were desperate, his mouth tight with a sinister, pleading edge. "Evelyn, listen to me very carefully," Marcus whispered, his breath smelling of bourbon. "This was an accident. Marissa slipped. The plate caught the edge of the table. You don't want to ruin your grandson's marriage over a household slip, do you? Think about Tyler."
I looked at Marcus. I looked at his manicured nails, his silk tie, his leather briefcase full of legal threats designed to steal the rental house Harold and I had built with forty years of honest sweat.
I pulled the napkin away from my forehead, letting him see the jagged three-inch cut and the blood pouring down my cheek.
"Step away from me, Marcus," I said.
Tyler took two steps forward, grabbed the front door handle, and pulled it wide open.
Two uniformed Sheriff's deputies stepped into the entryway, their hands resting on their utility belts, their sharp eyes sweeping the room in a single second. The lead officer—a tall, broad-shouldered deputy with a silver mustache and a badge reading DEPUTY VANCE—stopped dead in his tracks the moment his eyes landed on me.
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"Ma'am," Deputy Vance said, moving instantly past Marcus and kneeling beside my chair. "Are you alright? Who hit you?"
"My grandson's wife," I said, pointing my finger straight at Marissa. "She threw a heavy ceramic plate directly at my head because I refused to sign over my rental property to her parents."
