Chapter 17 - The Unraveling of Eleanor Vance
Slowly, as if turning toward an apparition in a nightmare, Eleanor pivoted toward the window.
Julian Vance stood up from a high-backed leather chair, leaning lightly on his cane. He had removed his overcoat, revealing his austere grey suit. In the harsh daylight, the terrifying, identical symmetry of their faces was undeniable—the same jawline, the same hairline, the same predatory eyes.
Eleanor staggered backward. Her hands clawed at the air behind her, catching the edge of the conference table to keep from collapsing.
"J... Julian?" she choked out. The aristocratic polish evaporated from her voice in an instant, replaced by a raw, guttural screech. "No. No, you're dead. The asylum confirmed the influenza outbreak in eighty-two! You died in Brattleboro!"
"The doctors you bribed confirmed my death, sister," Julian said calmly, taking two slow steps toward her. "The same doctors who took five thousand dollars of our father’s money to write me into an early grave while you forged the probate registry."
My father dropped his head into his hands, letting out a ragged, broken sob. He didn't even look up. He had known. All along, he had known.
"Arthur!" Eleanor screamed, rounding on my father with feral fury. "Did you do this? Did you contact him? You miserable, pathetic failure, I should have left you in the gutter where I found you!"
"Leave him alone, Eleanor," I commanded, slamming my palm flat against the mahogany table. The sharp crack of sound silenced the room instantly.
Eleanor turned back to me, her chest heaving, the mink coat slipping off one shoulder. For the first time in my life, I saw sheer, naked terror behind her eyes. The mask of the elegant, high-society matriarch was gone; what remained was a cornered, aging thief.
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"Emma, darling," Eleanor stammered, her voice suddenly switching into that sickly-sweet, manipulative register she always used when she needed a favor. "You don't understand what he was like. He was violent! He was mad! Our father wanted me to protect the estate! I did it for the family... I did it for *you*! Everything I bought, every party I hosted, it was to secure your place in society! You can't let him take the house! Where will I sleep tonight? Where will your father go?"
"You can sleep in a motel, Eleanor," I replied, looking directly into her frantic eyes. "Or you can call the country club friends you spent forty years impressing. Let’s see how many of them open their doors to an evicted fraud."
