My mother had long forgotten that specific clause, but I had kept it at the forefront of my mind for years.
She snatched the papers from me and told the directors, “You see, he always obeys me eventually.”
A waiter approached the table and quietly handed me an envelope.
Inside were photographs from the farmhouse and a copy of a bank transfer from Daria Kincaid to Dr. Weston, dated three days before Catherine disappeared.
Marcus saw the top photograph and went pale, nearly knocking over his wine glass.
My mother noticed the reaction and demanded, “What is in that envelope?”
“It is nothing important,” I said, closing the envelope with a hollow sound.
The massive ballroom doors swung open, and Dr. Weston entered the room between two federal detectives.
His expensive coat was soaked from the rain, and his hands were visibly shaking as he scanned the room.
My mother rose so sharply that her heavy chair struck the floor with a loud crash.
“That man is not invited to this event,” she shouted, pointing a trembling finger.
Dr. Weston stared at her and said, “You promised me immunity, Daria.”
Every director in the room turned to watch the scene unfold.
My mother’s voice became a blade as she retorted, “I have never met this man in my life.”
Weston laughed desperately and yelled, “You paid me to identify another woman’s remains as Catherine’s!”
“You said Samuel would inherit everything, and then you would control him,” he screamed.
Marcus backed away from the table, looking for an exit.
I stood up slowly, and my mother barked, “Sit down right now!”
For the first time in two years, I looked directly into her eyes and said, “No.”
The single word seemed to shake her more than any shouting ever could.
My phone rang again, and I put the speaker on so the entire room could hear Mara’s voice.
“We found the original captivity recordings, and Mrs. Kincaid appears on camera,” Mara said clearly.
“We also recovered evidence that Marcus Nelson personally arranged the vehicle fire,” she added.
Marcus turned and ran toward the service exit, but two more officers stepped through and blocked his path.
My mother finally understood the trap she was in.
She had not been dining with her broken son.
She had been sitting inside a courtroom I had carefully built around her for two years.
My mother recovered her composure quickly, turning to the board with a look of feigned shock.
“This is absolutely absurd,” she said, her voice dripping with practiced indignation.
“Samuel is mentally unwell, and that woman you see at the door is clearly an impostor.”
The ballroom doors opened once more.
