Chapter 8: The Federal Inquiry
Clara descended the grand staircase slowly, her black skirt sweeping against the risers with a rhythmic, hushed sound. Agent Vance waited at the bottom, his posture rigid, his trench coat damp from the evening mist outside. The crystal chandelier overhead cast a brilliant, unforgiving light across his sharp features.
"Asset forfeiture?" Clara asked, stopping two steps from the landing. "On what grounds? My husband purchased this property legally over twenty-five years ago. I hold the deeds, and I bought out the remaining family shares fair and square."
Agent Vance pulled a folded document from his leather folder and held it up. "Mr. Vance’s initial business acquisitions in nineteen-ninety-one were backed by bearer bonds reported stolen from a federal reserve transport in Boston three days before the fire that destroyed the old mill district here. For decades, local authorities turned a blind eye due to political contributions. But recent audits of dormant accounts have flagged the original serial numbers."
Eleanor stepped down into the foyer, moving with surprising defiance. "Arthur Vance has been dead for three months. You are barking up an empty tree, Agent. Whatever records you think you found were fabricated by disgruntled business competitors."
Vance turned his cool, analytical gaze toward Eleanor. "Mrs. Eleanor Vance, I presume? Or should I refer to you by your maiden name, given that your marriage certificate from nineteen-ninety-three was filed under an alias in a county that was later rezoned?"
Eleanor’s composure finally fractured. Her hand dropped from her earlobe, trembling slightly at her side. "That was a administrative error," she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
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"Errors can be corrected," Vance replied smoothly. "Just like property titles acquired through fraudulent estates. Mrs. Clara Vance, as the primary beneficiary and current holder of the deed, you are technically in possession of stolen federal assets. Which means this entire house, every stick of furniture, and every cent in the trust is subject to immediate seizure."
Clara stared at the federal agent, a cold numbness spreading through her limbs. She had fought Eleanor for control of the house, she had unlocked the forbidden nursery, she had uncovered the truth about Thomas's murder—and now, she realized she owned nothing at all. The grand estate was a house of cards built on stolen paper, and the wind was finally blowing it down.
