A soft crunch of gravel announced the arrival of Phoebe, my estate attorney, accompanied by Detective Miller, the lead investigator who had handled the criminal assault charges against Cordelia.
“Good morning, Sloan,” Phoebe smiled, setting a fresh stack of legal briefs onto the table. “Detective Miller brought the final court compliance updates before the state registry locks for the year.”
I gestured for them to sit, pouring two fresh cups of coffee. “What’s the latest from the district attorney’s office?”
Detective Miller adjusted his jacket, pulling a certified folder from his coat pocket. “Cordelia’s appeal for an early conditional release was formally denied by the state parole board yesterday afternoon. The board cited a total lack of remorse regarding the physical assault on the staircase. She will serve her full three-year sentence at the state correctional facility.”
“And Flynn?” I asked quietly, looking out over the water.
“Flynn’s probation officer filed the final quarterly employment report this morning,” Miller revealed. “Following the complete bankruptcy of his commercial business and the federal seizure of his accounts, he was unable to secure employment in the financial sector due to his accessory conviction. He’s currently working as an entry-level logistics clerk at a regional shipping warehouse in New Jersey, living in a small, rented studio apartment.”
Miller slid a printed court summary across the table.
“His wages are garnished at fifty percent to satisfy the remaining civil restitution orders tied to your medical bills and the legal fees incurred by Vance Holdings,” Miller added. “He has no remaining assets, no corporate standing, and no access to credit.”
A profound, absolute calm settled over my chest.
There was no burning rage left inside me, no lingering desire for vengeance—only the deep, quiet satisfaction of complete, unshakeable justice.
Flynn and Cordelia had stood in the foyer of this very house, swirling expensive scotch, convinced that pushing me down a flight of stairs and throwing divorce papers at my hospital bed would guarantee them a five-million-dollar fortune. They had believed that a quiet, loving woman could be easily humiliated, broken, and discarded once her inheritance was within their reach.
They had failed to realize that my grandfather, Sterling Vance, had spent fifty years navigating the predatory waters of corporate finance. He knew better than anyone that greedy outsiders would eventually try to strip away the legacy he had built for his granddaughter.
