Chapter 11 - Shadows of the Estate
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The iron gates of the Oakridge Estate hissed shut behind my sedan, sounding like the heavy door of a maximum-security prison. I shifted into park, staring at the grand stone mansion towering over the manicured lawn. To the rest of our small town, Arthur Vance was a philanthropist, a retired judge, and a pillar of the community. But to me, he was the man who had turned my mother into a prisoner in her own home.
My mother, Evelyn, had married Arthur five years ago following my father’s death. She had been lonely, vulnerable, and desperate for comfort. Instead of a partner, she had found a tyrant.
I killed the engine and walked up the front steps, adjusting my nursing scrubs. I worked sixty hours a week in the emergency department at St. Jude’s Hospital, but the real trauma in my life wasn't inside the trauma bays—it was inside this house.
I pushed open the front door without knocking. "Mom?"
The foyer was dead silent. The smell of lemon furniture polish and old wood filled the air. As I walked toward the kitchen, I caught sight of a shadow moving near the formal dining room.
My mother was on her knees, scrubbing a marble floor tile with a small bristle brush. She was wearing a faded cotton dress, her silver hair pulled back into a messy, strained bun.
"Mom, what are you doing?" I hurried over, dropping my bag and reaching for her arms. "Arthur has a cleaning crew that comes twice a week. Why are you on the floor?"
She jumped, startling like a frightened bird. "Sarah! Oh, sweetheart, you scared me." She quickly wiped her hands on an apron, refusing to meet my eyes. "It’s nothing. Arthur noticed a stain near the sideboard. He wanted it taken care of before his dinner guests arrive tonight."
"He has you scrubbing floors on your hands and knees?" Anger flared hot in my throat. "Mom, you have severe arthritis in your knees. You can barely walk up the stairs!"
"It's fine, Sarah," she whispered, her voice trembling as she glanced nervously toward the grand staircase. "Please, don't yell. If he hears you..."
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"If he hears me, what?" I demanded, standing up straight. "He's a bully, Mom. And you are his wife, not his maid."
Before she could answer, a heavy footstep echoed from the balcony above. Arthur Vance stepped into view, leaning over the carved banister, his cold grey eyes locking onto me with absolute contempt.
