Chapter 5 - The Voice from the Grave
The applause instantly died down. The screen flickered black.
Eleanor’s sneer froze. A sudden, deep dread seemed to grip her throat. She looked up at the black screen, her eyes dilating until they were almost completely black.
"Clara..." Eleanor whispered, the haughty arrogance evaporating, replaced by raw, primal panic. "Clara, stop this. Whatever you think you have... don't do this."
"Why, Mother?" Clara asked, her voice echoing through the magnificent hall. "Are you afraid our guests will see the real reason my father died four years ago?"
A collective intake of breath swept through the hall.
The screen flared back to life. But it wasn't a text message this time.
It was a dimly lit, high-resolution surveillance video, recorded from the private home office of the Vance estate in Holmby Hills. The timestamp in the corner read: *October 14, 2020 — 11:42 PM.* Exactly twenty-four hours before Arthur Vance was declared dead.
On the screen was Arthur Vance. He looked frail, seated in his leather armchair, hooked up to an oxygen cannula, his hands trembling as he tried to read a legal document.
Sitting across from him at the mahogany desk was Eleanor. She was holding a pen and a glass of dark red wine.
The high-definition audio cut through the speakers with horrifying clarity. Arthur’s raspy, weakened voice filled the room:
> *"Eleanor... this isn't what we agreed. This revised trust... it cuts Clara out completely. It leaves everything to you and Chloe's offshore shell company. Clara is the one who took care of me. Clara is the one who understands the research. I won't sign this."*
On the screen, the audience watched in petrified silence as Eleanor slowly stood up, walked around the desk, and leaned over her dying husband. Her face on the video was twisted into a cold, terrifying sneer.
> *"You stupid, sentimental old fool,"* Eleanor’s voice boomed from the speakers, dripping with pure venom. *"You don't get a say anymore, Arthur. Clara is weak, just like you. She cares about ethics and cures. Chloe and I care about power. You will sign this conservatorship transfer, or I swear to God, Dr. Sterling will adjust your evening IV drip tonight. Do you know what happens when a man with your heart condition gets twenty milligrams of potassium chloride? The monitor doesn't even alarm. It just looks like your heart finally gave up."*
> *"You... you wouldn't,"* Arthur gasped, his breathing turning ragged. *"You're a monster, Eleanor."*
> *"Sign it, Arthur. Sign it, or you won't live to see the sunrise."*
The video showed Eleanor forcing Arthur’s trembling hand around the pen, aggressively guiding his signature onto the bottom of the document. Then, the video showed Eleanor picking up Arthur’s oxygen line and pinching it between her fingers, watching him gasp and clutch his chest with cold, unblinking detachment for fifteen agonizing seconds before releasing it with a cruel laugh.
The conservatory was paralyzed.
Men with decades of corporate warfare experience looked at the screen with open-mouthed horror. Women were weeping. Julian’s grandmother gripped her cane so hard her knuckles turned white.
In the front row, Eleanor Vance let out an unearthly, bloodcurdling scream.
"NO! TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF RIGHT NOW! IT’S A LIE! IT’S NOT REAL!"
Eleanor lunged forward toward the technician's booth, but she tripped over the floral arrangements, crashing onto her hands and knees in front of the altar. Her diamond necklace snapped, scattering thousand-dollar stones across the marble floor.
She looked up from the floor, her makeup smeared with sweat and hysterical tears, clawing at Clara’s hem.
"Clara! Please! For the love of God, turn it off!" Eleanor shrieked in absolute terror. "I’m your mother! You can’t do this to me!"
Clara looked down at the woman who had terrorized her for twenty-six years.
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"You aren't my mother, Eleanor," Clara said into the microphone, her voice devoid of any warmth. "You are Arthur Vance’s murderer."
***
