Tristan walked down the marble staircase, and I stood there foolishly hoping that for once in his life, he would actually stand up and defend me.
“Grace, you really need to stop exaggerating everything,” he said, looking at me with total indifference. “My mother is right, and bringing those ashes inside will only scare away our good luck just when my partners are coming over.”
My mother lowered her head, looking completely broken, as if she were apologizing for the crime of still being alive.
I set her up in the guest room and arranged a small memorial table with a photograph of my father, a beeswax candle, and his urn, and I sat there for an hour watching her pray.
On the third day, while I was busy in the kitchen stirring a pot of soup, I heard a blood-curdling scream coming from the second floor and sprinted up the stairs.
Isolde was standing directly in front of the makeshift altar, looking absolutely livid.
“I explicitly told you not to light any incense in this house because it is not a cemetery!”
With one violent swipe of her hand, she knocked the candle off the table, sending it skittering across the hardwood floor.
My mother scrambled to pick it up, sobbing, “Please, Isolde, it has only been three days since he left us, please have some mercy.”
Isolde shoved my mother hard against the bed, causing her to hit her head on the headboard, and then she grabbed the urn.
“Give that back to her right now!” I screamed, lunging forward, but Tristan caught me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides.
“Just leave her alone, Grace, because Mother is finally cleaning up this house.”
I watched in horror as my mother-in-law marched toward the master bathroom while my mother crawled across the floor, reaching out with desperate, trembling hands.
“No, please, that is my husband, that is all I have left of him!”
Isolde opened the lid of the urn, dumped my father’s ashes into the porcelain toilet, and pulled the handle with a cold, mechanical flick of her wrist.
The swirling water took the last tangible piece of my father away from me, and Tristan just sighed and said, “There, finally, now we can eat our dinner in total peace.”
I didn’t scream or cry, I just stood there staring at the clean, white water, realizing that this wasn’t going to be a simple argument; it was going to be a war.
Chapter 2: The Investigation
I gathered my unconscious mother and carried her to the car, leaving the house without sparing a single glance at the people I had called family for four years.
Isolde was still shouting from the living room about me taking my old lady and my dramatic tragedies away, while Tristan didn’t even have the decency to come outside.
At the hospital, the doctor told me that my mother was in a state of severe shock, suffering from dangerous hypertension, and a total nervous breakdown caused by the trauma of the fire and the sheer cruelty of her reception.
That night, I rented her a comfortable, secure apartment in the Northwood district with a private nurse, and I placed the small silk handkerchief where I had managed to scrape a few remaining ashes from the bathroom tiles onto a shelf.
Facing that tiny, gritty shadow of the man who raised me, I made a solemn vow that I would never, ever forgive them.
The first thing I did was call Parker, a private investigator who had previously helped me uncover some complex corporate fraud at my company.
“I need you to look into the fire at my parents’ house, Parker,” I told him over the phone. “The local sheriff is claiming it was a simple short circuit, but my father replaced every single wire in that place just six months ago.”
Parker took four days to get back to me, and we met at a deserted coffee shop near the old downtown library, where he arrived carrying a manila folder and a look of grim certainty.
“Grace, your husband isn’t just cheating on you,” he started, his voice low and serious. “He is involved in something infinitely more dangerous than that.”
He laid out photos of Tristan entering a luxury high-rise apartment in the Midtown district with a woman named Letitia, who was twenty-five years old and visibly pregnant.
The apartment, the expensive SUV she drove, and all her medical bills were being paid for with money funneled directly from the accounts I managed every single month.
But that was only the tip of the iceberg, as Parker explained that Tristan had accumulated massive debts from illegal underground gambling rings totaling nearly eight million dollars.
Loan sharks were breathing down his neck, so he set his eyes on my parents’ property, a prime corner lot in Fairmount that a construction firm wanted for a new development.
My father had refused to sign any sales agreement, and three weeks later, two men broke in, poured gasoline near the main staircase, and cut the wires to fake a short circuit.
“One of the men has already confessed on an audio recording,” Parker said, handing me a small flash drive. “He specifically says that Tristan paid them to do it.”
I felt as though the floor were dropping out from under me because my father hadn’t died in an accident; he was murdered by the man I shared a bed with every night.
I wanted to rush to the district attorney, but Parker held up a hand.
“We have evidence, but we need to secure it properly, or they will just hide the money, bribe a judge, and claim you are making this up out of jealousy.”
So, I did the one thing they would never expect: I went back home.
I walked through the door with my eyes swollen and red, feigning total defeat and exhaustion, and Tristan greeted me with a performance of fake tenderness.
“My love, it is so good that you are finally back home,” he said, touching my arm.
Isolde smiled warmly when I told them that I was tired, depressed, and that I couldn’t bear to work at the company anymore.
“I was thinking of quitting and letting Tristan manage all of my assets from now on,” I whispered, keeping my eyes downcast. “Maybe he can handle everything much better than I have been able to lately.”
Tristan’s eyes lit up like he had just been handed the keys to the federal reserve.
