Chapter 7 - Diane
Diane Vance opened the door holding a shotgun.
Paige immediately raised both hands.
Julian whispered, “Great.”
I stared at the woman I had spent half my childhood calling Grandma.
She was seventy-six.
Her silver hair was tied behind her head.
She wore jeans, work boots, and a flannel shirt.
She looked nothing like someone with dementia.
She looked like someone who might shoot trespassers and finish her coffee afterward.
“Name.”
“Audrey.”
Her expression changed.
She lowered the shotgun.
“About damn time.”
Those were the first words my grandmother said to me in six years.
Then she stepped aside.
“Come in.”
Her Vermont house was modest.
Wood stove.
Bookshelves.
Old photographs.
No staff.
No luxury.
A framed picture of Grandpa sat above the fireplace.
Next to it was one of me at age ten.
I stopped.
“You kept that?”
Diane snorted.
“Arthur doesn't control my walls.”
Julian entered.
Diane looked him up and down.
“You look expensive.”
He almost smiled.
“Apparently I was.”
She stared at him for a moment.
“Not your fault they used money to raise you stupid.”
Paige coughed to hide a laugh.
Julian sighed.
“I deserved that.”
“Good. Maybe you're improving.”
We sat.
Robert arrived separately an hour later.
When Diane saw him, she did not hug him.
“You took too long.”
“I know.”
“You always say that.”
Then she looked at me.
“So. He finally went after you publicly?”
“He slapped me at graduation.”
Her face hardened.
“Your father never could stand applause meant for someone else.”
I asked about the journal.
Diane stared at Robert.
“He told you?”
“My mother did.”
“Catherine.”
She said the name like something unpleasant in her mouth.
“Is she cooperating?”
“Maybe.”
“Then she wants immunity.”
That possibility hadn't occurred to me.
“Why?”
“Because Catherine Vance has never done a generous thing without calculating the price.”
I thought about the storage unit.
The confession.
The records.
Maybe Diane was right.
“Where is Grandpa's journal?”
She stood.
“Safe.”
“Can I see it?”
“Yes.”
She walked toward a bookshelf.
“But first, you need to know what kind of man Henry became because of Arthur.”
I frowned.
“Became?”
“Your grandfather wasn't perfect.”
Nobody had ever said that.
“He loved Arthur,” Diane continued. “But love made him weak.”
Robert looked uncomfortable.
Diane ignored him.
“Henry covered up things.”
“What things?”
“The housekeeper Arthur blamed for stealing Eleanor's jewelry.”
I remembered Robert mentioning that incident.
“Arthur stole it?”
“Yes.”
“Did police charge her?”
Diane nodded.
My stomach turned.
“What happened to her?”
“She lost her job. Her husband left. She moved away.”
“And Grandpa knew?”
“Eventually.”
“What did he do?”
“Paid her privately.”
I stared at the photo above the fireplace.
“That isn't enough.”
“No.”
Diane's eyes met mine.
“Henry knew that too.”
She returned carrying a small black journal.
The cover was worn.
I recognized my grandfather's handwriting immediately.
She opened to a marked page.
October 5, 1999.
I have failed Eleanor and I may have failed Arthur by protecting him from consequences.
I sat down.
The journal documented years.
Arthur forging checks.
Lying.
Threatening employees.
Manipulating Catherine.
Then the night Eleanor died.
October 8.
Eleanor confronted Arthur after dinner.
Henry wrote that he left the house briefly after receiving a call from the plant.
Robert arrived before he returned.
Robert nodded.
“That matches my memory.”
Diane turned the page.
10:02 p.m. — Returned home. Eleanor found beneath east balcony. Arthur kneeling beside her. Wine glass broken upstairs.
My hands tightened.
10:14 — Catherine arrived unexpectedly.
Mom had been there.
She never told us.
“Catherine told police she came after the ambulance,” Robert said.
“She lied,” Diane replied.
The next entry was written two days later.
Arthur says Eleanor lost balance.
Catherine says she saw nothing.
But Catherine asked me whether sedatives can be detected after death.
I felt sick.
Diane turned another page.
October 13.
Found pharmacy receipt in study wastebasket. Prescription belongs to Arthur.
I looked up.
“He knew.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't he go to police?”
“He did.”
Robert corrected her.
“He went to a detective.”
“What happened?”
Diane's face hardened.
“The detective was Thomas Keller's brother-in-law.”
The notary.
The network was bigger than one lie.
“Henry spent the rest of his life trying to gather enough evidence to reopen the case.”
“Did he?”
“Almost.”
She handed me a photograph.
A grainy image from a home security camera.
The east balcony.
Date stamp.
October 8, 1999.
9:47 p.m.
Three people visible.
Eleanor.
Arthur.
Catherine.
My mother had been on the balcony.
I stared at it.
“She said she arrived after.”
“She lied.”
“Does the journal say what happened?”
“No.”
“Then who knows?”
Diane looked at me.
“Catherine.”
I sat very still.
“Why didn't Grandpa confront her?”
“He did.”
“What did she say?”
“That Eleanor threatened Arthur with a fireplace poker.”
Robert shook his head.
“I never heard that.”
“Because Henry didn't believe her.”
Diane turned several pages.
Then she showed me the final entry.
Six weeks before Grandpa died.
I have made a decision regarding Audrey.
Arthur cannot be permitted to control her future.
If she becomes the person I believe she will become, she must be given the ability to choose what happens to this company.
And if Arthur has not changed, she must be given the evidence to stop him.
I closed my eyes.
This wasn't an inheritance.
It was responsibility.
A burden waiting until I was old enough to lift it.
“Why didn't you contact me?”
Diane's voice softened.
“I tried.”
Everyone had tried.
My parents built walls around me and then told me nobody cared enough to visit.
“I sent birthday cards.”
“I never got them.”
“Christmas gifts.”
“Never.”
“Letters.”
I looked away.
Diane exhaled.
“At some point, I believed Arthur when he said you wanted nothing to do with us.”
“So everyone believed someone.”
“Yes.”
Her honesty hurt more than an excuse.
My phone rang.
Officer Daniels.
I answered.
“Audrey, we have a development.”
“What?”
“We analyzed some of the material from Dr. Reese's flash drive.”
I looked at Robert.
“And?”
“There are audio recordings of Arthur discussing offshore accounts.”
“That sounds good.”
“It is.”
Daniels paused.
“But there's something else.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“One recording is between Arthur and your mother.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
He hesitated again.
“They're talking about you.”
“What are they saying?”
Daniels lowered his voice.
“Catherine says she won't let Arthur hurt you.”
I blinked.
“That's surprising.”
“Arthur responds that nobody needs to hurt you.”
Another pause.
“He says they only need to make your death look accidental.”
Everything inside me went cold.
Julian saw my face.
“What happened?”
I could barely speak.
Daniels continued.
“There's more.”
“What?”
“Your mother says she's already replaced the medication.”
My heart stopped.
“What medication?”
I thought of headaches.
Coffee.
Vitamins.
Then I remembered.
For six months, Mom had mailed me supplements.
Iron tablets.
She said I looked tired.
I hadn't taken them often.
But sometimes I did.
I walked toward my bag.
My hands shook as I found the small bottle.
The label said FERROUS SULFATE.
I held it up.
Diane took the phone.
“Officer Daniels, arrange toxicology immediately.”
Then she looked at the bottle.
“What?”
I whispered, “My mother sent these to me.”
Robert's face went white.
Paige stepped closer.
“You took them?”
“Sometimes.”
“How often?”
“I don't know.”
Julian stared at the bottle.
Then suddenly he whispered, “Audrey.”
I turned.
He looked terrified.
“Last Christmas.”
“What?”
“You passed out.”
I remembered.
Christmas dinner.
One glass of wine.
Then dizziness.
I woke up on the guest-room floor.
Dad said I had mixed alcohol with something.
Mom told everyone I was drinking secretly.
Julian shook his head.
“You took one of those pills after dinner.”
The room disappeared around me.
Because suddenly I understood.
May you like
They had not only prepared financial documents for the possibility of my death.
They may have already practiced creating one.
