Chapter 6 - The Ghost on the Porch
The swirling snowflakes drifted past my mother’s shoulders, catching the porch light and dissolving into the cold Portland air before they could touch the hem of her cashmere coat.
I stood paralyzed in the hallway, my hand resting against the doorframe. Beside me, Cassandra froze, her fingers unconsciously clutching the hem of her sweater as she stared at the woman she had never met, yet whose sharp, uncompromising green eyes were mirrored exactly in my own face and in the toddlers playing just feet away in the living room.
“Mother?” The word scraped against my throat, dry and disbelieving. “How did you find us? I didn't tell a soul where we were staying.”
Eleanor Prescott didn't wait for an invitation. She stepped across the threshold, bringing with her the sharp scent of cold cedar and expensive French perfume, and closed the front door firmly against the winter storm.
“You think because you turned off your phone and abandoned an eight-hundred-million-dollar acquisition that you’ve managed to hide from the world, Damon?” Eleanor’s voice was as crisp and unyielding as polished steel. She didn't look at the half-built toys on the floor or the festive decorations hanging from the walls. Her gaze locked straight onto me, then flicked briefly toward Cassandra. “And I see you’ve managed to complicate your life even further.”
“Mother,” I said, stepping between her and the living room entrance to shield Cassandra and the twins from her razor-sharp appraisal. “If this is about Prescott Technologies or the Denver board, save your breath. I resigned my executive duties forty-eight hours ago.”
Eleanor let out a short, humorless laugh that held no warmth at all. “Corporate boardrooms are the least of my concerns today, Damon. Look at what I am holding.”
She raised the heavy manila envelope in her gloved hand. It looked identical to the one Cassandra had pulled from her bag on the Christmas Eve flight, right down to the weathered edges and faded red postal stamps.
May you like
“What is that?” Cassandra asked, her voice tight with a protective, defensive edge as she stepped up beside me, bridging the distance between us without hesitation.
Eleanor finally turned her full attention to Cassandra, her eyes narrowing in a calculated assessment. “This, my dear, is the reason your grandfather lost his shipping fleet in nineteen-ninety-two. And it is the reason why the Prescott family fortune—every last share, every patent, and every dollar—was built on a foundation of systematic fraud that is about to come crashing down on both of our heads.”
