“And you tied my seventy-one-year-old mother to a mattress with dirty pillowcases so she wouldn’t make noise while you drank mimosas on the patio!”
Brenda’s face turned an apocalyptic, mottled shade of bruised turnip:
“How dare you speak to me like that in my own house!”
“This is not your house, Brenda,” I answered softly.
My voice held forty decibels of compressed, unyielding polar diamond.
“This house belongs to the direct lineal descendants of Chief Master Surveyor Arthur Mercer Senior.”
“It belongs to Rose Mercer.”
“And the moment you tied her to this frame…”
I looked past Mark’s shoulder toward the stairwell:
“…you triggered the self-executing forfeiture clause of Article Three, Section Three of the United States Constitution.”
CHAPTER 2: THE AMBUSH ON THE STAIRCASE
Downstairs, the heavy front door slammed shut with a sharp, concussive bang:
*SLAM.*
The floorboards in the hallway creaked under the weight of three men stepping through the foyer.
Heather’s voice floated up from the bottom of the stairs, breathless and triumphant:
“Mark!
They’re here!
Mr.
Sterling’s representatives just arrived from Naples!
They have the notary transport van backed up to the garage!”
Mark’s posture shifted.
The nervous, sweating husband who had stammered excuses two minutes ago evaporated.
