“You blackmailed my husband for nearly three decades,” I said, feeling a sudden wave of revulsion.
“Call it whatever you like,” Beatrice replied, leaning back in her chair with complete indifference. “He paid my housing expenses continuously for twenty-seven years.”
PART 3: THE DEMAND
I stared at the mountain of bank papers scattered across the coffee table, feeling as though my entire thirty-five-year marriage was crumbling into dust before my eyes.
Then Beatrice reached into the metal box once more and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. She slid it across the glass surface directly toward me.
“That is the invoice for next month’s housing payment,” she said calmly.
I stared down at the demand letter in total shock. “Charles is dead,” I stated firmly, looking up into her eyes. “We buried him in Lexington just four weeks ago.”
“His debt to my family did not die in the cemetery with him,” Beatrice replied without a hint of hesitation.
“You cannot possibly expect me to continue paying you,” I said, my voice rising in disbelief.
“I expect you to do exactly what your late husband did every single month,” she answered, as if discussing an ordinary business transaction. “You and your children lived very comfortably for decades on money that rightfully belonged to my brother Christopher.”
