Marcus took a heavy breath, his head spinning with betrayal. He had revered Reginald his entire life. To see his father reduced to what appeared to be a predatory monster made something fundamental inside Marcus's soul snap.
He turned back toward Cynthia, dropping to one knee beside her. "Cynthia, look at me. Did he touch you anywhere else? Are you hurt?"
"My... my leg," she sobbed, tilting her chin up to reveal tear-streaked cheeks and perfect distress. "He tore it open... he said if I told you about the foundation, he would make sure I never walked out of this house."
Reginald struggled to sit upright on the sofa, each shallow breath feeling like broken glass in his chest. "Son... listen to me for one second... ask yourself... why would I tear her dress? Look at her hands! Look at her fingernails!"
"I told you to be quiet!" Marcus shouted, wheeling around with predatory rage. But as he stepped closer to Reginald, something caught his peripheral vision.
On the mahogany table beside the entryway, resting beneath the warm glow of a shaded lamp, sat a heavy brown kraft envelope.
It was tied neatly with white string around two cardboard buttons. Stamped in red ink across the top corner were the words: FORENSIC ACCOUNTING & ASSET VERIFICATION β CONFIDENTIAL.
Marcus paused. His brow furrowed.
Cynthia noticed his gaze shift. A sudden spike of pure ice shot down her spine. The crying hitched in her throat for a microsecond before she quickly covered it with another shuddering gasp. "Marcus, please hold me... take me upstairs... I can't look at him!"
Marcus didn't move immediately. "What is that envelope, Dad?"
"It's the reason she ripped her own clothes, Marcus," Reginald rasped, leaning his head back against the cushion, his hand still clamped tight over his aching heart. "Open it. Unwind the string. Look at the bank routing numbers. Look at the forged signatures on the trust transfer."
"Marcus, no!" Cynthia shouted, her voice rising an octave, shedding some of its theatrical fragility and taking on an edge of raw, piercing anxiety. "Don't listen to his demented lies! He's deflecting! He assaulted me, Marcus! Look at my body! Look at what he did to me!"
Marcus stood completely upright. The room fell into an eerie, suffocating stillness.
He looked at Cynthia's torn dress. Then he looked at his father, clutching his chest in obvious physical distress. Then he looked at the brown envelope.
CHAPTER V: THE SIBLING SENTINELS OF TRUTH
The double doors clicked open again, this time with measured, dignified authority.
Martha Sterling stepped into the parlor, her silver hair styled in an elegant chignon, her face pale with shock. Beside her was Brenda, the longtime housekeeper, whose hands reflexively rose to cover her mouth in absolute horror at the sight before her: Reginald slumped on the sofa clutching his chest, Marcus glaring with clenched fists, and Cynthia weeping with a torn gown.
"What is happening in this house?!" Martha demanded, her voice cutting through the humid tension like a steel blade. "Reginald! Oh, God, your heart!"
Martha rushed past Marcus without hesitation, dropping to her knees beside her husband of forty-two years. She pulled a small silver nitro spray from her pocket, expertly administering a dose under Reginald's tongue while checking his rapid, thready pulse. "Brenda, call Dr. Mercer right now! Bring the oxygen unit from the study!"
"Right away, Mrs. Sterling," Brenda gasped, turning immediately to sprint back down the hall.
Marcus stood frozen in the middle of the carpet, his hands hanging limp at his sides. The sudden entrance of his mother, the clinical urgency of the medication, and the sight of his father's graying skin began to pierce the red haze of his adrenaline.
"Mom... Dad attacked Cynthia," Marcus said, though his voice now carried a strange, hollow uncertainty. "Look at her dress. Look at her leg."
Martha turned her head slowly, her cold, penetrating eyes fixing first upon Cynthia, then upon her son. She did not look frightened. She looked deeply, profoundly disgusted.
"Your father has had two bypass surgeries, Marcus," Martha said with icy precision. "He can barely lift a case of wine up the basement stairs. You honestly believe that a sixty-eight-year-old man with advanced cardiac ischemia tackled a thirty-two-year-old woman, ripped reinforced designer silk, and left three neat scratches on her thigh without suffering a stroke on the spot?"
"She screamed, Mom! I heard her scream!" Marcus argued, taking a step toward his mother, his chest heaving.
"A scream is cheap, Marcus," Martha retorted. "Liars scream the loudest when they run out of rope."