Chapter 4 - The Sound of Poured Wine
Joyce connected her phone to the encrypted local server, transmitting the video file directly to Russ Callahan’s secure receiver. The progress bar reached one hundred percent within seconds, confirming delivery with a soft emerald checkmark.
"File received," Russ confirmed quietly through her earpiece. "Reviewing now. Stay off the comms until I call you back."
The line went dead.
Joyce slipped the phone into the deep pocket of her floral silk robe. She stood up, cinched the tie once more, and turned toward the bedroom door. Her gait was silent as she crossed the Persian rug, steering well clear of the black suitcase that remained untouched on its wooden stand, basking innocently in the amber nightlight.
She eased the door open half an inch. The second-floor hallway was immersed in shadow, save for the faint illumination rising from the open-plan staircase at the far end of the corridor.
From the floor below, the subtle, rhythmic sound of domestic life drifted upward into the quiet house. The refrigerator door suctioned open and closed. Ice shifted in a dispenser. Then came the unmistakable, clear chime of crystal against crystal, followed by the rich, liquid glug of heavy red wine being poured into a goblet.
Joyce moved along the dark hallway with ghostlike precision. Her hand skimmed lightly along the polished mahogany wainscoting, guiding her steps through the shadows until she reached the wide balcony railing overlooking the great room and kitchen below.
Downstairs, the scene was bathed in the warm, flattering glow of under-cabinet halogen lighting and the low flame of an electric fireplace built into the limestone wall.
Kendall was leaning against the polished quartz kitchen island, looking effortlessly glamorous. She had not changed out of her deep red satin dress. The fabric draped over her curves with liquid grace, catching the warm kitchen light as she raised a wide-bowled glass of Cabernet Sauvignon to her lips. She took a slow, leisurely sip, her head tilted slightly, an expression of supreme contentment settling across her polished features. On the counter beside her sat her structured red leather handbag, resting upright like a sentinel.
Sitting at the breakfast bar on a low leather stool was Corey.
Joyce’s son looked exhausted. At thirty-five, Corey carried the weary, conflicted countenance of a man caught perpetually in the crossfire between two formidable women. His dark hair was rumpled, his gray cashmere sweater slightly stretched at the cuffs where he habitually tugged at them when anxious. He held a mug of black coffee between two hands, staring down into the dark liquid as though searching for an escape from his own life.
For six months, Kendall had been relentless. She had framed it as modern financial planning, whispering in Corey’s ear about early inheritance distributions, tax advantages, and restructuring the family estate in Oakridge into a multi-member LLC that she would manage. She had cornered Joyce at Sunday dinners, sliding draft power-of-attorney documents across linen tablecloths disguised as estate protection. When Joyce had politely, firmly declined to surrender control of the property she and her late husband had built from scratch, the atmosphere in the house had turned into an ice field.
Joyce stood in the darkness of the upper gallery, perfectly still, looking down through the balusters at her son. Her heart ached for him—for his blindness, for his desperate desire to keep peace with a wife whose ambition had crossed into criminal calculation.
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"You really think she'll listen to the attorneys in Denver?" Corey asked quietly, his voice heavy with fatigue, breaking the silence of the kitchen.
Kendall lowered her wineglass, a smooth, patronizing smile touching her lips. "Of course she will, honey. Once she sees how difficult managing the out-of-state assets is on her own, she’ll be relieved to hand over the reins. It’s for her own protection."
