I walked to the head of the table.
I stood beside where he lay pinned.
I did not strike his cheek.
I did not raise my voice.
I reached down, picked up the small, hand-carved black rubber wheel that I had fashioned from a tire patch twenty-five years ago—the wheel that had fallen loose from the red toy truck during our run through the alley:
I laid the small piece of rubber flat across the nape of Arthur Vance’s silver neck:
TINK.
“The family name was never yours to steal, Arthur,” Ethan Vance whispered softly.
Every syllable fell like an un-appealable epitaph that sealed forty years of dynastic treason into solid rock forever:
“Arthur Mercer surveyed with honest stone.”
“Leo lives with honest breath.”
“And around here…”
I leaned down until my clear slate-gray eyes filled the Chief Justice’s entire field of vision:
“…nobody ever, ever… poisons my family and walks away.”
