Chapter 7 - THE STAIRCASE
Julian walked back into the house like a man in a trance.
I followed closely behind, holding a towel to my bleeding lip.
Margaret hadn’t moved from her spot in the foyer. The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the silence left behind by the sirens.
Julian stopped at the bottom of the grand staircase.
He looked up at the marble steps, then down at his mother.
“Mom.” His voice was barely a whisper. “What did she mean?”
Margaret looked down at her lap. She traced the grain of her wooden cane with a trembling finger.
“Two years ago,” Margaret began, her voice brittle. “The night before your wedding. You were out of town at your bachelor dinner.”
Julian nodded slowly. “I remember. I got the call that you had slipped. The doctors said you had a stroke, and that caused the fall.”
“I didn’t have a stroke,” Margaret said.
She looked up, and the pain in her eyes was agonizing.
“Beatrice came over. She wanted to show me her wedding dress. We were standing right there.” Margaret pointed to the top landing of the stairs.
“I told her I had hired a private investigator to look into her family. I told her I knew she was Arthur’s sister, and I was going to tell you the truth when you got home.”
Julian’s breath hitched.
“She didn’t say a word, Julian. She just looked at me. And then she pushed me.”
I gasped, covering my mouth with my hand.
“She pushed you,” Julian repeated, the horror dawning on him. “She broke your spine. She put you in this chair to keep you quiet.”
“When I woke up in the hospital, she was sitting beside my bed,” Margaret wept. “She whispered in my ear that if I ever told you the truth, she would poison your food. She said she would kill my only remaining son.”
Julian fell to his knees.
He buried his face in his mother’s lap, wrapping his arms around her waist, sobbing like a child.
“I’m so sorry,” he cried. “I brought her into this house. I did this to you.”
Margaret gently stroked his hair.
“No, my sweet boy. You loved her. She used your good heart against you. But we are safe now.”
I stood by the door, watching the billionaire weep at his mother’s feet.
It didn’t matter how much money you had.
Evil didn’t care about bank accounts.
Suddenly, Julian’s head snapped up.
May you like
He looked at me.
“Clara. The study fireplace. Where she burned the will.”
