Chapter 8 - The Last Supper
Inside the house on Elm Street, the celebratory dinner party was in full swing.
Through the grand floor-to-ceiling windows of the dining room, I could see the sparkling crystal chandeliers illuminating a lavish spread. A high-end catering team in black uniforms was moving back and forth from the kitchen, serving silver platters of oysters, caviar, and prime beef tenderloin to six wealthy guests seated around the mahogany table.
Diane was holding court at the head of the table, wearing a brand-new emerald green velvet gown, her three-carat diamond tennis necklace sparkling brilliantly under the chandelier lights. Chloe was sitting beside her, wearing a designer jumpsuit, loudly bragging to the Henderson family about her upcoming move to Manhattan and showing off her luxury SUV keys.
They were laughing, drinking nineteen-eighty-two Chateau Margaux, celebrating the million-dollar windfall they believed was arriving in their bank account tomorrow morning.
At 7:05 p.m., I stepped out of my truck.
I didn't wear a suit. I wore my heavy oil-rig work boots, my dark denim jeans, and my oil-stained canvas jacket—the clothes I had worn while burning my life away in the Gulf of Mexico to earn the money they were currently eating off silver platters.
I walked up the flagstone path, pushed open the heavy oak front door without knocking, and stepped into the grand foyer.
The loud laughter and clinking wine glasses from the dining room filled the air.
"And then I told the dealer," Chloe’s loud, squeaky voice echoed from the dining room, "if the penthouse doesn't have a private elevator, I'm simply not interested!"
The guests laughed politely.
I walked slowly down the carpeted hallway, stopping at the arched entrance of the formal dining room.
Diane saw me first. Her smile stiffened slightly when she saw my rough, dirty work clothes, but she quickly smoothed her expression, waving a diamond-bedecked hand toward an empty chair at the table.
"Marcus!" Diane chimed brightly, her voice dripping with fake warmth. "You made it! Everyone, this is my wonderful son-in-law, Marcus! The hardworking man who made this incredible evening possible!"
The guests—including Mr. Henderson, a prominent local banker, and his wife—smiled and nodded politely at me.
"Marcus, dear," Diane patronized, "you really should have changed into a suit before joining us. We have distinguished guests. Where is Natalie? Did you leave her downstairs?"
I didn't move from the doorway. I stood with my hands in my jacket pockets, looking around the room—at the silver platters, the five-hundred-dollar bottles of wine, the diamond necklace around Diane’s neck, the expensive silk clothes.
"Natalie isn't downstairs, Diane," I said, my voice quiet, clear, and perfectly flat. "She’s in a private inpatient suite at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in Manhattan."
The room went dead silent.
Mr. Henderson set his wine glass down, frowning in confusion. "Sloan Kettering? Cancer center? Who has cancer?"
Diane’s face paled by a fraction of a degree, but she quickly let out a light, nervous laugh. "Oh, Marcus, please! Don't joke about such things in front of our guests! Natalie just has a mild nutritional deficiency..."
"She has Stage III Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, Diane," I said, stepping forward into the dining room. My voice was no longer quiet; it was a thunderous rumble that vibrated the crystal glasses on the table. "She has a malignant tumor in her chest that has been growing for three months while she was locked in a windowless basement storage room with no heat, no medicine, and no sunlight!"
A collective gasp echoed through the room. Mrs. Henderson pulled back in her chair, her eyes wide with shock.
"Marcus!" Diane hissed, standing up so fast her velvet gown caught on her chair. "Have you lost your mind?! How dare you make up such disgusting lies in my home!"
"This isn't your home, Diane," I said, pulling a folded stack of certified legal documents from my coat pocket and slapping them onto the white linen tablecloth right beside her plate. "As of two o'clock yesterday afternoon, you signed away every shred of property title and power of attorney. This house belongs to me and Natalie. The bank accounts belong to me and Natalie. You own nothing."
Chloe jumped up from her chair, her face contorted in rage. "You lying bastard! What about the million dollars?! What about the buyout package?!"
"There is no million dollars, Chloe," I smiled, a dark, terrifying grin spreading across my face. "There was never a pension buyout. I made up the entire story to get you and your mother to sign the house and the accounts back over to me without a legal fight."
Diane backed away from the table, her hands clutching her chest, her eyes wild with pure, frantic terror. "You... you tricked us!"
"I didn't trick you, Diane," I said, stepping closer to her until I was hovering over her like an avenging shadow. "I simply dangled a pile of gold in front of two greedy, heartless pigs, and watched you walk straight into the slaughterhouse."
Outside in the driveway, a loud, heavy mechanical grinding noise began to echo through the night air.
The heavy hydraulic winch of Big Mac’s commercial flatbed tow truck had just engaged.
Chloe looked out the front window and shrieked in absolute horror. "MY SUV! SOMEONE IS HOOKING UP MY LINCOLN!"
"It's not your Lincoln, Chloe," I said coldly, pointing out the window as the heavy steel chains wrapped around the wheels of the brand-new black Lincoln. "It was leased using stolen funds. The dealership repossessed it two minutes ago."
Before anyone could speak, red and blue flashing lights illuminated the grand windows of the dining room.
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Three Stamford Police cruiser cars pulled into the driveway, their sirens letting out short, sharp yelps as six uniformed officers, led by Detective Robert Miller, stepped out onto the lawn, accompanied by a woman holding a professional news camera.
"Diane," I whispered into her ear, my voice chilling her to the marrow of her bones. "Your guests are leaving. But your new hosts have just arrived."
