Chapter 6 - The Mother’s Mask
The visitation room at the Cheatham County Detention Center was freezing cold. The walls were unpainted cinder block, smelled of cheap floor bleach, and hummed with the fluorescent rattle of dying lightbulbs.
Separated from me by a thick sheet of scratch-resistant Plexiglas sat Evelyn Vance.
The pristine, high-society church lady of Cedar Ridge was gone. She was stripped down to an oversized bright orange jumpsuit, her blonde hair greasy and unbrushed, her manicured nails chewed down to the quick. Yet, when she looked at me through the glass, her eyes held the same bottomless, venomous spite that had haunted my childhood.
She picked up the plastic telephone receiver. I waited three seconds, letting the silence crush her, before I picked up mine.
"You look proud of yourself, Sergeant," Evelyn sneered, her voice raspy through the static-filled speaker. "Coming back into our town like a conquering hero. You ruined everything. Your father is on suicide watch, and our house has crime scene tape across the porch."
"You aren't my mother," I said, my tone as flat as an executioner's blade.
Evelyn's mouth twisted into a grotesque, mocking smile. "Oh. So the Army lawyers finally found the papers, did they? Clara's little bastard child."
"Tell me about the crash," I commanded.
Evelyn laughed—a high, shrill sound that made the guard standing in the corner glance our way. "Clara was soft. Weak. She thought Richard loved her. But Richard loved money, and Mercer gave him the roadmap. That steering column on Clara's station wagon didn't fail on its own, Becca. Richard made sure of that on a rainy night twenty years ago."
My grip tightened on the plastic phone until the casing groaned. My fingernails dug into my palm, drawing blood.
"You murdered her," I whispered.
"Nobody could ever prove it," Evelyn hissed, leaning her face against the glass until her breath fogged the surface. "We took you in because Clara’s grandfather wrote the trust so tight not even Mercer's judges could crack it without you. We fed you, clothed you, and tolerated your miserable face for eighteen years. And then you had the nerve to enlist! You were supposed to stay in that house until we could declare you incompetent!"
"Instead, I survived," I said, leaning in until our eyes were inches apart through the glass. "I learned how to shoot. I learned how to lead soldiers. And now I’m stripping every dollar, every property, and every shred of freedom you ever stole."
Evelyn’s smirk faltered, replaced by a sudden flare of animal terror. "You think you've won? Mercer isn't the top of the chain, Becca. Mercer was just the local banker. The people who bought Clara’s timber lands... they aren't county politicians. They’re coming for that money. And they won't use a courtroom to get it."
"Let them come," I said coldly. "I've been in real wars, Evelyn. Tell your friends they're going to need more than lawyers."
May you like
I slammed the phone onto the metal cradle, stood up, and walked out without looking back.
***