Chapter 3 - The Champagne of Fools
While my father worked in the shadows,
the scene at our—no,
his—house was one of grotesque celebration.
Carter Miller popped a bottle of vintage champagne,
the cork echoing in the high ceilings of the foyer where I had been shivering hours before.
Vanessa,
dressed in a red velvet dress that was far too expensive for a teacher's salary,
laughed as she leaned against the marble countertop.
Eleanor,
my mother-in-law,
sat in the wingback chair by the fireplace,
sipping her drink with an expression of supreme satisfaction.
"It's finally done,"
Eleanor sighed,
adjusting the pearls around her neck.
"That drab little girl was a weight around your neck,
Carter."
"And that child...
well,
she was never really one of us,
was she?"
Carter laughed,
pouring another glass.
"She’s probably halfway to her father’s shack by now,"
he said,
glancing at the window where the snow continued to pile up.
"The old man won't even know what hit him."
"He’ll be too busy trying to keep them warm to realize he’s signed over the power of attorney papers I tucked into her bag."
"Wait,"
Vanessa said,
tilting her head.
"You think she'll actually sign them?"
"She won't have a choice,"
Carter sneered,
his face flushed with alcohol and arrogance.
"She has no money,
no car,
and a sick kid."
"I’ll offer her a measly settlement in exchange for the house and her silence."
"Her father is a mechanic;
he doesn't have the resources to fight a Miller."
They toasted to their brilliance,
unaware that the very air they breathed was being monitored.
High above the storm,
a drone equipped with thermal imaging drifted through the clouds,
fed directly to my father's screens.
Every word they spoke was being recorded,
every laugh a nail in their collective coffin.
Carter walked over to the thermostat and turned it up,
reveling in the warmth of a house that didn't belong to him.
He felt invincible.
He felt powerful.
He had successfully discarded a wife and child like yesterday's trash,
and he believed the world would simply let him.
He didn't notice when the lights flickered for a split second.
He didn't notice when the Wi-Fi router on the shelf turned red.
He didn't notice that his cell phone,
sitting on the coffee table,
was being remotely wiped of every contact,
every photo,
and every piece of incriminating evidence he thought was hidden.
"To the future,"
Vanessa toasted,
clinking her glass against his.
"To the future,"
Carter echoed.
Outside,
the wind picked up,
shaking the house to its foundations.
It was the sound of a storm,
but to those who knew Everett Langston,
it was the sound of the hammer falling.
The Millers had spent their lives looking down on the people they considered "provincial."
They had forgotten that the most dangerous men in the world
don't wear suits.
They wear grease-stained coveralls.
They live in quiet farmhouses.
And they never,
ever let an insult to their family go unpunished.
As the clock struck midnight,
bringing in Christmas Day,
the first domino tipped over.
In a secure data center in Des Moines,
a flag was raised on every bank account associated with Miller Real Estate.
In a police station ten miles away,
May you like
a fax machine began to spit out a report that would change the course of the night.
The celebration in the Miller house was about to become a funeral.
