Chapter 7 - Shadows in the Study
The wood-paneled study smelled of old leather, pipe tobacco, and decaying history. A single desk lamp cast a harsh, yellow pool of light over the center of the mahogany desk, leaving the corners of the room swallowed in deep shadows.
Margaret sat in the high-backed leather armchair behind the desk, her posture unyielding. Julian stood behind her right shoulder, his arms crossed tightly over his grey shirt, his jaw clenched so hard muscles twitched in his cheek. Clara sat on the edge of the leather sofa across the room, keeping Lily tucked tightly against her side.
Michael stood by the tall, rain-streaked window, staring out into the dark gardens. He hadn't removed his trench coat, as if preparing to leave the moment things went south.
"You've all made quite a mess of things," Margaret broke the silence, her voice cutting through the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. She tapped the edge of the open envelope against the wood of the desk. "You faked a death, you stole millions from the offshore accounts, and you built a family on a foundation of blackmail and adultery. Am I missing anything?"
"Only the part where you all tried to murder me," Michael said without turning away from the window. He finally spun around, leaning back against the sill. "Let's not gloss over the attempted assassination, Mother. Julian cut the brake lines on my Jaguar ten years ago tonight. I have the receipts from the mechanic who impounded the wreckage after I abandoned it."
"You were bankrupting the firm!" Julian shouted, taking a step toward the desk before Margaret raised a hand to stop him. "Every penny our father left us was gone by the time you finished your benders in Atlantic City. You were going to put us on the street!"
"So you decided to become executioners?" Michael countered smoothly, walking toward the desk and dropping his manila folder right beside Margaret's envelope. "Tell me, Julian, does Lily know her real father is a fugitive, and her adoptive father is a wannabe murderer? Such a wholesome American family."
"Leave Lily out of this," Clara pleaded, her voice cracking as she clutched the little girl's hand. "She's seven years old, Michael. She has nothing to do with what happened ten years ago."
"She has everything to do with it," Michael said, his eyes locking onto Clara with a chilling intensity. "She's my leverage. Either you sign over your shares of the estate to me by midnight, or I walk out that front door and hand these custody papers and the brake-line receipts to the state prosecutor."
Julian stared at his brother in utter disbelief. "You're extorting your own family? Again?"
"Family is just a business arrangement with poor accounting," Michael replied coldly.
Margaret slowly slid the silver key across the desk toward Michael. She didn't look angry; instead, a strange, knowing smile touched the corners of her aged lips.
"You forgot one thing, Michael," Margaret said softly.
Michael frowned, eyeing the small key. "What's that?"
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"You left the station locker key behind in the album," Margaret said, leaning forward. "And I sent Julian down there an hour before you arrived."
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