Chapter 7 - The Gathering of Wolves
The heat inside the house was stifling. Diane kept the thermostat set at seventy-four degrees in the winter, creating an oppressive, airless environment that smelled strongly of cinnamon-scented wax melts and roasting meat.
In the center of the spacious, cathedral-ceiling living room, Uncle Thomas stood like an Old Testament judge. He had not taken off his heavy wool trench coat. His silver hair was neatly combed, his gold-rimmed reading glasses perched on the bridge of his aristocratic nose. On the coffee table in front of him—the very same mahogany coffee table where Diane had dropped the scraps of Ella’s certificate into the wastebasket forty-eight hours earlier—Thomas had laid out three separate, color-coded stacks of legal folders.
Arthur was sitting in his motorized leather recliner by the gas fireplace.
The man who was supposedly undergoing experimental, off-label chemotherapy for aggressive bone cancer looked remarkably healthy. Arthur was sixty-nine years old, with a deep Florida golf tan, a full head of white hair, and a round, well-fed belly resting comfortably against the waistband of his khaki slacks. He was holding a crystal tumbler of Scotch, but his hand was shaking so badly the ice cubes rattled against the glass like dice in a cup.
Melissa sat on the edge of the sectional sofa, her arms crossed defensively over her chest, her face pale. Bella was nowhere to be seen—thankfully, Melissa had had the sense to leave her daughter at home.
"Eric! Rachel!" Melissa snapped, jumping to her feet the moment we walked in. "Tell Uncle Thomas to get the hell out of this house! He came barging in here without knocking, accusing Mom of stealing, screaming at Dad—Dad’s heart can't take this kind of stress!"
Eric didn't answer his sister. He walked straight to the coffee table, unzipped his leather portfolio, and dropped a three-inch-thick stack of paper onto the wood with a dull, concussive thud.
The sound made Arthur flinch.
"Hello, Arthur," Eric said. His voice was terrifyingly calm. He didn't call him *Dad*.
Arthur swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically toward Diane, who had followed us inside and was now standing by the foyer archway, her chest heaving beneath the cashmere sweater.
"Son," Arthur mumbled, his voice gravelly. "Now, look here... there's been a terrible misunderstanding. Thomas has always had an axe to grind with your mother. You know how he is. He’s been jealous of this family's success ever since your grandfather died."
"Jealous of your success?" Uncle Thomas spoke up, his voice cutting through the room with the clinical detachment of a scalpel. He didn't raise his voice, which made it infinitely more terrifying. "Arthur, you haven't held a paying job since your small-engine repair shop went into chapter seven bankruptcy in 2014. The only 'success' this house has seen in the last decade is Diane's extraordinary talent for mail and wire fraud."
"How dare you!" Diane shrieked, advancing into the room, her painted fingernails stabbing the air toward Thomas. "You get out of my house! You get out before I call the sheriff! This is private property!"
"Please do," Thomas said smoothly, adjusting his reading glasses and picking up the first green folder from the table. "Call Sheriff Miller. In fact, use the landline. I had breakfast with Pete Miller this morning at the diner in town. I showed him the wire transfer receipts from the First National Bank of Atlanta, drawn from your sister Claire’s account and deposited directly into your personal money market account."
Diane’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The color drained from her cheeks with sickening speed, leaving behind a grayish, powdery pallor beneath her foundation.
"Claire sent that money as a gift," Diane stammered, her voice losing its operatic strength, turning thin and defensive. "She knew we were struggling with medical debt. Family helps family! That’s what we do!"
"Claire sent that money," Thomas said, his voice dropping into a lethal, rhythmic cadenced snap, "because you sent her an email on November 14, 2018, containing a forged diagnostic report from Duke University Medical Center stating that Arthur had stage-four osteosarcoma with extensive metastatic lesions in his pelvic girdle."
The room went entirely, horrifically dead.
I looked at Arthur. The old man wouldn't look up from his crystal tumbler. A bead of sweat formed on his temple and rolled slowly down into his white sideburn.
"You forged a cancer diagnosis, Mom?" Eric asked. The question hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.
"It wasn't a forgery!" Diane shouted, her voice cracking into a shrill, hysterical pitch. "Arthur *was* sick! He had severe arthritis! His back was killing him! The doctors were running all kinds of tests, they said it could be anything! They said it *could* be bone issues! I was terrified! I was trying to protect our home, Eric! Do you know what the medical bills were like?"
"Arthur," Uncle Thomas interrupted, ignoring Diane completely and stepping directly in front of the recliner. "Stand up."
Arthur didn't move.
"Stand up, Arthur," Thomas repeated, louder this time. "Stand up and tell your son about your oncology appointments. Tell him about the chemotherapy you drove to Durham for every three weeks. Tell him about the clinical trials Claire has been paying two thousand dollars a month to fund."
"Leave him alone!" Melissa yelled, stepping between Thomas and her father. "He’s an old man! Can't you see you're terrorizing him? Eric, tell him to stop! What is wrong with you? Did that little brat’s spelling bee really make you go completely insane? It was a piece of paper! Mom tore up a piece of paper, and you're letting this miserable old bastard tear the whole family apart!"
Eric turned his head slowly toward Melissa. The look in his eyes was so cold, so entirely devoid of the protective older-brother affection he had shown her his whole life, that Melissa actually stepped backward, her mouth snapping shut mid-breath.
"Don't you ever speak about my daughter again," Eric said, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "Not once. Not for the rest of your life."
"Eric—" Melissa whispered, her defiance suddenly crumbling into genuine fear.
"And as for you, Melissa," Thomas said, opening the second folder, which was bright yellow. "Don't be so quick to defend your mother. You might want to take a look at what Diane has been doing with your daughter’s college trust."
Melissa froze. "What?"
Diane’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated panic. For the first time, she didn't yell. She didn't posture. She lunged forward, her hands outstretched, trying to snatch the yellow folder out of Thomas’s grasp.
"Thomas, don't you dare!" Diane screamed, her voice feral. "That is private! That has nothing to do with this!"
Thomas easily side-stepped her, using his shoulder to block her path, and tossed the yellow folder directly into Melissa’s lap.
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"Look at the trustee signature on page three, Melissa," Thomas said, watching Diane with cold satisfaction. "Look at who signed away Bella’s educational disbursements to pay off Diane’s Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus accounts."
***
