Chapter 3 - The Broken Altar
I took two long strides up the staircase, stopping just a few feet from her. The scent of her expensive perfume—vanilla and white cedar—suddenly made me feel physically sick.
"Where is your father, Jessi?" I asked, keeping my voice dangerously low.
Jessi’s hand froze halfway to her lips, the teacup trembling just enough to spill a golden drop onto her wrist. The annoyance vanished from her face in a fraction of a second, replaced by a sudden, terrifying blankness.
"What did you say?" she whispered.
"You heard me," I stepped closer, my eyes locked onto hers. "Arthur Vance. Your father. The man who supposedly died of a heart attack off the coast of Maine eight years ago. Why was he standing outside an abandoned warehouse by the harbor twenty minutes ago with your mother and my daughter?"
Jessi’s cup slipped from her fingers. It didn't shatter on the thick wool runner of the stairs; it landed with a dull, heavy thud, dark tea staining the cream-colored fabric like fresh blood.
"You followed them," she said, her voice dropping into a flat, dead register. It wasn't a question.
"My daughter told me she was being taken to a secret place," I roared, the control I had maintained all morning finally snapping. "She told me Wendy threatened her! And when I followed them, I found a dead man alive and well, hiding in an industrial slum with my seven-year-old child! What the hell is going on here, Jessi? Did you know? Did you lie to me about his death?"
Jessi backed away until her shoulders hit the wall of the hallway. She didn't cry. She didn't throw her hands up in frantic denial. Instead, a strange, bitter smile touched the corners of her mouth—a smile I had never seen in our ten years of marriage.
"You think you own all of this, don't you, David?" she whispered, her voice trembling with a sudden, venomous intensity. "You think because your venture capital firm buys and sells companies like toys, you can walk into this family and control everything we touch?"
"Answer the question, Jessi!" I shouted, grabbing the polished wooden banister. "Is your father alive?"
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"He had to be dead, David," she hissed back, stepping toward me with fire in her eyes. "Because if he wasn't dead, the federal indictments for the securities fraud your own firm secretly investigated eight years ago would have landed on our doorstep. My father didn't die of a heart attack. He went into the ground early so that you and I could have a clean start with your dirty money!"
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