Chapter 6
The grand Victorian estate on Elm Street stood shrouded in gloom, its towering oak trees dripping with cold autumn rain that tapped a frantic rhythm against the leaded glass windows. Inside Arthur Vance’s private study, the air smelled heavily of aged leather, expensive scotch, and the lingering tension of a home under siege. Detective Sarah Jenkins—no relation to the deceased Sarah—swept a gloved hand across the mahogany desk, logging files into a portable evidence locker. She had spent twenty years unraveling white-collar crimes in this city, but the sheer methodical greed uncovered in Arthur’s home office chilled her to the bone. Every drawer held duplicated financial records, offshore shell company registries, and forged medical power-of-attorney documents that proved Arthur had been systematically draining his late brother's estate long before the fatal crash. Beatrice sat rigidly in a wingback armchair by the unlit fireplace, wrapped in her burgundy shawl despite the chill, her eyes fixed blankly on the Persian rug. She had been brought back to the estate under police supervision while search warrants were executed across the property. "You knew about the shell companies, Mrs. Vance," Detective Jenkins said calmly, pausing her search to look directly at the elderly matriarch. "You were the one who signed off on the initial asset transfers back when your younger son passed away." Beatrice’s lips tightened into a thin, bloodless line, her refusal to speak louder than a whisper acting as her last line of defense. "I protected this family," Beatrice finally rasped, her voice dry as parchment. "Arthur was building an empire. Sarah was a sentimental fool who didn't understand the realities of maintaining wealth." Jenkins shook her head slowly, a quiet anger flickering in her eyes. "She understood enough to record his threats and hide the evidence inside a child’s toy," Jenkins retorted, snapping another file shut with a sharp thud. "That sentimental fool outsmarted both of you." Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside as a uniformed officer entered carrying a cardboard box filled with shredded documents recovered from the study's automated bin. The forensic accounting team would spend weeks piecing the paper ribbons back together, but the digital files already secured from the teddy bear provided a seamless narrative of betrayal and premeditation. Arthur was currently sitting in a holding cell downtown, furiously demanding a phone call to high-priced defense counsel, completely unaware that his mother's fortress had already been thoroughly compromised from the inside out.
