Chapter 8
Across the hall, trapped in the quiet prison of his wheelchair, Grandfather watched the shadows lengthen across the Persian rug of the living room. The white coffin remained the centerpiece of the space, a silent, mocking monument to the daughter he had failed to protect. He could hear the faint, muffled hum of voices coming from the study—Derek and Elena, conspiring behind closed doors just as they had done every evening for the past year.
Grandfather’s hands trembled violently against the armrests. He rolled his wheelchair forward, the rubber tires making a faint, rolling whisper against the hardwood. He navigated the familiar path toward the study door, his knuckles sore, his breathing shallow and rattling in his chest.
He didn’t have a voice anymore. The stroke had taken his words, leaving him mute in a household ruled by greed and deception. But he had his eyes. And last night, sitting by the bay window unable to sleep, he had seen through the glass doors of the patio everything they thought had happened in the dark.
He had seen Derek force Maya against the mahogany desk. He had seen the terror in his daughter’s eyes before her phone was snatched away by Elena’s ring-laden fingers. And he had seen the precise moment Derek’s hand clamped over Maya’s mouth to silence her screams, a struggle that ended only when the breathing stopped and the house fell into a sickening, eternal quiet.
Grandfather reached the study door. It was locked. He raised a shaking, liver-spotted hand and struck the solid oak panel with the flat of his palm. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Inside the study, the voices cut off instantly.
A moment later, the lock clicked. The door swung open, and Derek stood in the frame, his dark suit crisp, his bruised face set in an expression of cold annoyance. Elena appeared just behind his shoulder, her black lace dress looking like funeral shrouds in the dim hallway light.
“Father,” Derek said, his voice dropping into a patronizing register that made Grandfather’s blood boil. “You shouldn’t be wandering around out here. The nurses said you needed rest.”
Grandfather glared up at his son. Saliva pooled at the corner of his mouth, but he ignored it. He raised his right arm, his finger pointing with terrifying, trembling precision straight at Derek’s chest, then moving horizontally to point at the study desk behind him. His eyes burned with a mixture of grief, hatred, and an urgent demand for justice that words could never capture.
Elena stepped forward, her expression softening into a mask of false pity. She reached out to place a hand on the old man’s shoulder, but Grandfather violently jerked his wheelchair backward, escaping her touch with a harsh rasp of rubber against wood.
“He’s exhausted, Derek,” Elena murmured, her voice carrying a warning undertone. “The trauma of the funeral planning is getting to him. Take him back to the sunroom.”
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Derek grabbed the handles of the wheelchair, his fingers digging into the rubber grips with unnecessary force. As he wheeled his father away from the study, leaning down close to the old man’s ear, Derek whispered words meant only for him.
“You can point all you want, old man,” Derek hissed quietly, his breath hot against Grandfather’s neck. “No one speaks for you anymore. And tomorrow, after the funeral, you’re checking into a private facility two states away. Permanently.”
