Chapter 8 - My Brother's Choice
The pills contained a sedative.
Not enough in each capsule to kill me.
Enough to make me dizzy.
Confused.
Unsteady.
Especially with alcohol.
Exactly the kind of behavior my parents had spent years telling people to expect from me.
The laboratory result arrived the next morning.
My supposed iron tablets contained trace doses of clonazepam.
I sat at Diane's kitchen table while Officer Daniels explained it over the phone.
“Do not consume anything that came from your parents' home.”
I laughed once.
“That's a sentence I never thought I'd hear.”
The Christmas incident became evidence.
So did two other unexplained episodes during college.
One after a family birthday dinner.
One after my cousin's wedding.
Both times, my mother had brought me coffee.
Both times, I became disoriented.
Both times, my father later told relatives I had “fallen off the wagon.”
There had never been a wagon.
Only a story they needed people to believe.
Arthur's bail request was denied that afternoon.
Catherine had not been arrested yet.
She was cooperating through an attorney.
Diane was correct.
Mom wanted a deal.
Julian was furious.
“How can she get a deal?”
Robert looked at him.
“Because prosecutors often exchange reduced charges for evidence against a more serious defendant.”
“She helped him.”
“Yes.”
“She drugged Audrey.”
“We don't know whether she personally altered the capsules.”
“She admitted opening the brokerage account.”
“Yes.”
“She forged documents.”
“Yes.”
“So why does she get to walk away?”
I looked at Julian.
This was new for him.
He had grown up believing consequences were things that happened to people without the right last name.
Now consequences were inside the family.
“No one said she's walking away,” I said.
He pushed away from the table.
“This is insane.”
Diane watched him.
“Welcome to reality.”
He glared at her.
“You don't have to enjoy this.”
“I don't.”
“You act like you do.”
Diane stood.
“You think I enjoy watching Arthur destroy his children?”
Julian froze.
“You think because Audrey suffered more visibly, you're fine?”
He looked away.
“You're not.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
Diane walked toward him.
“Your father trained you to expect reward without effort. He made you dependent on admiration. He taught you your sister's pain was evidence of your superiority.”
Julian's jaw tightened.
“He made you weak on purpose.”
That hit him harder than an insult.
Diane continued.
“Because weak sons don't challenge fathers.”
Julian left the room.
I followed him outside.
He stood beside the porch railing.
“You okay?”
He laughed bitterly.
“Do you actually care?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm trying not to become Dad.”
He looked at me.
Then down at his shoes.
“I was awful to you.”
“Frequently.”
“I told people you were a dropout.”
“Yes.”
“I made jokes.”
“Yes.”
“I borrowed money from Mom while you were working two jobs.”
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
“I knew something didn't add up.”
That mattered.
“What?”
“You were always studying.”
I waited.
“You had textbooks in your car. You talked about professors. Once I saw your student ID.”
“And?”
“I asked Dad.”
“What did he say?”
“That you were sneaking onto campus because you were obsessed with pretending you still attended.”
I stared.
Julian laughed miserably.
“And I believed him.”
“Because you wanted to.”
He nodded.
“That too.”
For the first time, there was no excuse.
He looked toward the mountains.
“I can testify.”
My pulse shifted.
“To what?”
“Everything I remember.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody should have done that for you years ago.”
I didn't forgive him.
Not yet.
But something changed.
That evening, Daniels contacted us again.
Investigators had discovered the unknown texts were being routed through prepaid numbers.
But they traced one purchase.
Security footage showed the buyer.
A woman.
Catherine Vance.
My mother had been sending the anonymous warnings.
That should have made me feel grateful.
Instead, it made me angry.
She knew how to contact me.
She chose riddles.
Warnings.
Partial truths.
She was still controlling information.
Still deciding how much I deserved to know.
Her attorney arranged a meeting.
We met at the district attorney's office the next morning.
Mom sat across the table wearing a plain navy dress.
No makeup.
No jewelry.
It was the closest I'd ever seen her come to looking ordinary.
Her attorney began speaking.
I stopped him.
“I want her to talk.”
Mom looked at me.
“I sent the messages.”
“I know.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“Then why didn't you call me?”
“Arthur monitored my phone.”
“You had a storage unit full of evidence.”
“I was afraid.”
“You've been afraid for twenty-two years.”
She lowered her eyes.
“I know.”
“Did you put sedatives in my supplements?”
“No.”
“Did you know they were there?”
Her silence answered.
Julian stood.
“You knew?”
Mom started crying.
“Arthur said it was only enough to make her sleep.”
I felt nothing.
That was the frightening part.
No shock.
No heartbreak.
Just exhaustion.
“Christmas?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
“He needed witnesses.”
“To what?”
“That you were unstable.”
I turned toward the prosecutor.
“Please write that down.”
Mom flinched.
“Audrey.”
“What?”
“You're talking about me like I'm a criminal.”
I stared at her.
“You are.”
Her face collapsed.
Maybe nobody had ever said it.
Maybe she had spent decades believing participation under pressure didn't count.
I continued.
“You don't get to call yourself a mother only during the parts where it makes you look sympathetic.”
She cried quietly.
Julian sat down again.
I asked the question that mattered.
“What happened to Eleanor?”
Mom stopped crying.
Her attorney immediately intervened.
“My client has provided investigators with—”
“Mom.”
She looked at me.
“What happened?”
Her hands trembled.
“I was on the balcony.”
“We know.”
“Arthur and Eleanor were fighting.”
“About the forged money?”
“Yes.”
“What happened next?”
Mom closed her eyes.
“She told him she was going to the police.”
My heart pounded.
“Then?”
“Arthur grabbed her wrist.”
Julian stopped breathing.
“She pulled away.”
Mom's voice shook.
“She slapped him.”
I pictured my father being challenged.
Humiliated.
The exact thing he could never tolerate.
“What did he do?”
Mom opened her eyes.
“He shoved her.”
The room went silent.
I stared.
“He pushed her over the balcony?”
“No.”
Mom spoke quickly.
“She hit the railing.”
My pulse hammered.
“The railing broke.”
Robert had told me Eleanor fell.
Nobody said the railing broke.
“She was hanging onto the edge.”
Mom started sobbing.
I suddenly knew.
Before she said it.
“You could have helped her.”
Mom covered her mouth.
Arthur had not pushed Eleanor directly to her death.
Not yet.
She had caught the balcony edge.
And Catherine had been there.
“What did Dad do?”
Mom whispered, “He stepped on her hand.”
Julian made a broken sound.
My stomach turned.
“And you?”
“I froze.”
“For how long?”
“I don't know.”
“Mom.”
“Seconds.”
“Did you try to stop him?”
She shook her head.
“Did you call for help?”
“No.”
“Did you grab her?”
“No.”
I stared at the woman who gave birth to me.
“Did Eleanor look at you?”
Mom broke.
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Catherine's entire body shook.
“She said, ‘Please.’”
Nobody moved.
“And you did nothing.”
Mom whispered, “I was afraid of him.”
I leaned back.
Twenty-three years.
One word.
Please.
I stood.
“I have nothing else to ask.”
“Audrey, wait.”
I walked toward the door.
Then Mom said something that stopped me.
“Your father didn't kill Eleanor because of money.”
I turned.
“What?”
“He killed her because she had changed her will.”
Robert frowned.
“What will?”
Mom looked at me.
“She had already transferred something away from Arthur.”
“What?”
Catherine stared directly into my eyes.
“Fifty-one percent of a private holding company.”
Robert went completely still.
“What holding company?”
Mom whispered, “The one that owns the land beneath every Vance factory.”
I didn't understand.
Robert did.
He sat down slowly.
“Who owns it now?”
May you like
Mom's answer changed everything.
“You do.”
