Chapter 5 - The Locked Door
Inside the dining room, the heavy oak door reverberated with a hollow thud that seemed to echo directly in the center of everyone’s chests. For five agonizing seconds, nobody moved. The flickering candlelight cast erratic, dancing shadows across the faces of the trapped relatives, illuminating streaks of panic, confusion, and bubbling fury.
Thomas was the first to snap. He shoved his chair back with enough force to tip it over backward, sending it crashing onto the hardwood floor. He rushed toward the door, slamming his fists against the thick wood paneling.
"Eleanor! Open this door right now!" Thomas bellowed, his voice cracking with humiliated rage. He twisted the brass doorknob frantically, but it spun uselessly in his grip. The deadbolt had been thrown from the outside. "Open up, you psychotic witch! You can't lock us in here like animals!"
"Thomas, stop shouting, you're giving me palpitations," Martha groaned, pressing a trembling hand against her chest as she slumped back into her chair. The color had completely vanished from her face, leaving her looking remarkably frail beneath her cream cable-knit sweater. "Call her on your cell phone. Make her let us out of this room immediately."
Thomas yanked his smartphone from his pocket, his fingers fumbling clumsily against the glass screen. He hit redial on Eleanor’s number, holding the device to his ear while pacing furiously back and forth across the rug. After three rings, the call went straight to voicemail. He cursed loudly, hurling the phone against the far wall where it shattered into plastic and glass fragments against the wainscoting.
"She blocked me!" Thomas yelled, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. "She’s cutting us off completely!"
At the far end of the table, Patricia remained frozen in her seat, her dark red blouse stained with a droplet of spilled wine. The narcissistic armor she had worn for years was finally cracking under the immense weight of her exposed fraud. She wasn't angry anymore; she was terrified. She knew better than anyone else at the table what those documents meant. The bridge loans weren't just a bad investment; they were secured using fraudulent titles, signatures, and assets that belonged to people who were now legally entitled to seize everything Patricia owned—and everyone else's, too.
"We need to get out of here," Patricia whispered, her voice barely audible over Thomas’s ranting. "The side window. We can climb out the side window into the garden."
Uncle Arthur, who had remained remarkably quiet throughout the entire ordeal, adjusted his glasses and looked toward the large, double-paned window overlooking the snow-covered backyard. "Patricia, it’s forty below zero outside, and we're all wearing holiday sweaters and dress shoes. If you climb out that window without a coat, you’ll freeze to death before you reach the driveway."
"I don't care about the cold!" Patricia shrieked, standing up so fast her chair wobbled. She grabbed a heavy silver gravy boat from the table and marched toward the window, raising it high above her head with the clear intent of smashing the glass.
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Before she could swing, the heavy dining room door clicked, and the brass doorknob slowly turned from the outside.
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