“The Beatrice Sterling Revocable Trust,” I interrupted. “Liquidate it. Now.”
“Victoria, there are tax implications, penalties—”
“I do not care if we lose fifty percent to the IRS. Liquidate the trust. Empty the checking accounts. Freeze all associated credit cards, Black Cards, and lines of credit. I want her financial footprint erased from the earth. Yes, Marcus. Right this second.”
I hung up before he could argue. My sister was now effectively destitute.
Next, I dialed the personal cell phone of Chief Miller, the head of the local police department. I had provided pro-bono legal defense for his precinct’s union three years ago, saving pensions and careers. He owed me.
“Chief,” I said when he answered. “I need squad cars at my estate on Sterling Drive. Now.”
“Victoria? What’s going on? We got a noise complaint about a party there—”
“I have time-stamped video evidence of felony child endangerment and assault,” I said, my voice slicing through the air like a scalpel. “The perpetrator and the accomplice are currently on my property. Bring handcuffs.”
I ended the call. The digital ink was dry on my sister’s financial ruin. I closed the laptop. Through the thick glass of my study window, I looked down at the patio. Beatrice had recovered her nerve. She was laughing again, posing for a selfie by the pool, acting like the queen of the estate, entirely unaware of the invisible noose I had just pulled tight around her neck.
I smoothed the front of my immaculate suit jacket, checked my reflection in the mirror to ensure not a single hair was out of place, and walked to the door. I unlocked it. The distant wail of police sirens was just beginning to cut through the heavy summer air, a beautiful, violent symphony that promised absolute destruction, and as I placed my hand on the banister to begin my descent, I smiled.
Chapter 4: The Public Execution
I descended the grand staircase with deliberate, measured steps. The air in the house was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and catered food, a nauseating combination that fueled the cold fire burning in my chest.
I stepped out onto the sprawling patio, the oppressive July heat immediately wrapping around me. The party was at its zenith. People I had never met were drinking my wine, swimming in my pool, laughing on my furniture. I moved through them like a ghost parting a sea of silk and linen. Guests paused mid-sentence, sensing a shift in the atmospheric pressure, stepping back as I walked past.
Beatrice was standing near the outdoor bar, holding court with a group of men in pastel polo shirts. She saw me approaching and rolled her eyes dramatically, leaning in to whisper something to her audience that made them chuckle. She adjusted her posture, preparing to scold me, preparing to play the victimized, exasperated sister whose uptight sibling was ruining the vibe.
I bypassed her entirely.
I stepped up onto the raised wooden platform of the DJ booth. The DJ, a young man wearing oversized headphones, looked up at me in confusion. “Hey lady, you can’t be up here—”
I didn’t speak. I simply reached forward, grabbed the thick cluster of audio cables plugged into the side of his laptop, and violently yanked them out.
