Chapter 18 - Shadows in Austin
Kenneth kept his mouth clamped shut, his breathing shallow, his jaw trembling. But the sudden terror in his eyes told me everything I needed to know.
"You don't know what you're digging into, Lucia," Kenneth croaked, his voice thick with an ancient, deeply buried dread. "You think you're so smart with your algorithms and your balance sheets. You think everything in this world can be quantified on a ledger. But there are things... people... you don't understand."
"Try me," I said.
"Leave it alone!" Kenneth suddenly exploded, his withered frame lunging forward from the armchair, his eyes wild. "Take the money! Take the company! Leave Tyler to rot in federal prison if you have to! But do not dig into that London wire! If you touch that account, if you pull that thread, you will destroy this entire family in ways you can't even fathom!"
"You already destroyed this family, Kenneth," I replied coldly. "Marcus, take their luggage. The sheriff's transport is waiting outside."
"What?!" Eleanor screamed, clutching Kenneth's arm. "Transport? Where are you taking us? You said we could stay in the cottage!"
"I said you could stay until the federal attachment was finalized," I said, stepping back toward the door. "The United States Marshals Service has just placed this entire property, including the outbuildings, under an administrative quarantine as part of the asset forfeiture protocol against Tyler Brennan. You are no longer permitted on Vance-Brennan corporate grounds."
"Where are we supposed to go?!" Eleanor wept, falling to her knees, clutching at the hem of my wool slacks. "Lucia, please! I have sixty-two dollars in my purse! I don't have a credit card! I don't have a roof over my head! I'm your mother!"
I looked down at the woman who had sat silently at the Christmas dinner table while my father ordered me and my five-year-old child out into the freezing night. I remembered the way she had carefully adjusted her napkin, admiring her diamond rings, while Maya cried from the cold on the front porch.
I gently, deliberately pulled my trouser hem from her manicured fingers.
"There is a women’s transitional shelter on 7th Street in downtown Austin," I told her, my voice completely devoid of pity. "They serve hot soup at five o'clock. They provide clean cots, provided you test negative for narcotics and check in before sundown. Marcus has arranged for an Uber to drop you both off at the corner."
"A shelter?!" Eleanor shrieked, her voice hitting a register of pure hysteria. "I am Eleanor Vance-Brennan! I was the chairwoman of the Houston Symphony Gala! I cannot sleep on a cot with homeless people!"
"Then you had better find a park bench with good drainage," I said. "Because by tomorrow morning, the freeze warning goes into effect."
I turned on my heel and walked out of the cottage.
Outside, the Texas winter wind whipped across the rolling hills, tossing my coat around my knees. Marcus followed closely behind, shutting the cottage door firmly behind us.
"Did the team trace the London wire, Marcus?" I asked as we walked up the stone path toward the main residence.
"Partially," Marcus replied, pulling a tablet from his coat. "The London trust was dissolved in 2004. But the executing law firm was Hargrove & Sterling, based in Mayfair. We managed to pull the archived identity of the trustor who authorized the three-million-dollar wire in September 1998."
I stopped on the limestone steps, turning to face him. "And?"
Marcus hesitated—a rare sight for a man who had spent twelve years in military intelligence and another decade managing corporate warfare.
"The trustor wasn't an anonymous corporate benefactor, Lucia," Marcus said quietly. "It was registered under the personal name of Katharine Vance-Sterling."
I felt the ground sway beneath my feet.
Katharine Vance-Sterling. My maternal grandmother. The aristocratic English matriarch whom Eleanor had always claimed died penniless in a Sussex nursing home when I was three years old.
"My grandmother died in 1984," I whispered, my heart thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Eleanor told me she was buried in an unmarked grave outside Brighton."
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"Katharine Vance-Sterling didn't die in 1984, Lucia," Marcus said, his eyes solemn. "She died four months ago in an estate outside Edinburgh. And according to the Scottish probate registry, she didn't leave her estate to Eleanor. She left everything to you. And Kenneth Brennan has spent the last twenty-five years forging your signature to intercept her quarterly trust disbursements."
***
