Chapter 13 - Secrets of the Past13
“Blood money?” I repeated, staring down at the tarnished brass key on the porch mat before looking back up at Vince Gentry’s hardened, unforgiving face. “Are you out of your mind? My father bought this land with insurance payouts and commercial development savings. Get off my property right now before I call the police.”
Vince didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a harsh, dry laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across pavement.
“Call them,” Vince challenged, stepping closer until he was standing right on the threshold. “Call Detective Miller and tell him Vince Gentry is standing on your front porch talking about the summer of 2001 in Joplin. See how fast your mother’s face turns white when the D.A. realizes the house you’re standing in wasn't funded by your father’s honest work at all, but by an insurance scam your mother pulled with my younger brother, Thomas.”
A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. My father had passed away when I was twelve, leaving behind an idealized memory of a hardworking, honest man who built our family’s security from scratch. My mother had always played the grieving, long-suffering widow who sacrificed everything to keep us afloat.
“You’re lying,” I spat out, though my voice lacked the absolute conviction I wanted it to have.
“Am I?” Vince reached into his jacket pocket again, pulling out a thick, yellowed manila envelope tied with frayed cotton twine. He tossed it onto the porch console table right past my arm before I could stop him. “Open it, Ethan. Look at the police reports, the bank transfer receipts from an offshore account in the Caymans, and the signed confession your dear, sweet mother tried to burn before we split ways two decades ago. She didn't just steal from my brother—she ruined his entire life, drove him to a shallow grave, and used his stolen cash to buy the very foundation your father built upon.”
I stared at the envelope, my breathing turning shallow. The ghosts of my mother’s past weren't just knocking at our door; they had broken the locks completely.
“Why are you telling me this now?” I demanded, glaring at Vince. “If my mother robbed your brother twenty-five years ago, why come after me? She’s the one going to prison next week!”
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Vince’s eyes flashed with a dark, dangerous fire. “Because Patricia is going away, but the debt doesn't die with her. That house legally sits on land purchased with stolen capital. According to civil asset recovery laws, it belongs to my family now. And if you think I’m going to let you and your little wife live comfortably in a mansion built on my brother’s misery while he rots in an unmarked grave, you’ve got another thing coming, Parker.”
Before I could grab the envelope and drag him off the porch, Vince turned around sharply, marched down the walkway, climbed into his black sedan parked around the corner, and sped away down Elmwood Drive, leaving me standing alone in the doorway with the heavy weight of a legacy built entirely on lies.
