Chapter 4 - The Cabin on Fire
The rental cabin, named The Whispering Pines, sat on a high ridge overlooking the ski slopes, its massive cedar logs glowing under the morning sun. Inside, the air smelled of stale cinnamon rolls and the bitter dregs of coffee that had been burning in the pot since five in the morning.
Nelson Vance stood by the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, a glass of straight bourbon in his hand despite the early hour. His face was flushed red, his expensive technical ski jacket unzipped down to his stomach. Across the room, his twelve-year-old son, Bryce, was sprawled on the leather sofa, playing a violent game on his tablet with the volume turned all the way up. The sounds of digital explosions and gunfire filled the high-ceilinged room.
The heavy front door slammed open, throwing a blast of freezing mountain air across the hardwood floor. Arthur stepped inside, his wool coat covered in a thin layer of frost, his teeth chattering not from the cold, but from an old man’s unbridled fury.
"Where is she?" Arthur roared, his voice shaking the crystal long-stemmed glasses I had purchased for their holiday dinners.
Nelson set his bourbon glass down on the mantelpiece, his eyes narrowing. "She hasn't come back from the hospital, Dad. I told you, Clara’s gone completely off the deep end this time. She actually called the county paramedics to a private family residence. The neighbors were out on their balconies taking videos. It’s an absolute disgrace to our name."
"She shut off the card," Arthur said, his hand slamming into the kitchen island with enough force to rattle the stoneware plates. "She removed me from the bank. She canceled my medical insurance, Nelson! I was standing at the pharmacy register like a beggar while that little girl from the lower village told me my daughter had cut me off!"
Bryce didn't look up from his tablet, but the smirk on his face widened as he blew up another digital tank. "Aunt Clara’s a freak," the boy muttered. "Peyton’s a little snitch anyway."
"Shut up, Bryce!" Nelson snapped, though there was no real weight behind his reprimand. He turned back to Arthur, his breath smelling of alcohol. "What do you mean she cut you off? She can’t do that. You’re her father. You built the family company that she sold to get her corporate consulting seed money."
"She did it," Arthur whispered, sinking into a rustic armchair, his grand exterior completely hollowed out by the reality of his financial sudden-death. "She did it from her phone while she was sitting in that emergency room. Nelson, my property taxes are due next Tuesday. If the ACH doesn't clear, the county will file a lien against the Victorian. I don't have fourteen thousand dollars liquid in my personal savings."
"Well, don't look at me," Nelson said quickly, backing away toward the kitchen. "You know all my cash is tied up in the North Ridge development project. Every dollar I have is leveraged against the construction loans. I thought Clara was handling your expenses through the winter."
"She was," Arthur said, his eyes turning toward the window that looked out onto the icy porch where the incident had occurred the night before. "She was handling everything. Until your son decided to push her girl through the ski rack."
"Oh, come on, Dad, don't start blaming Bryce now!" Nelson yelled, his defensive instincts flaring. "You were the one who told the girl to apologize! You said yourself, boys play rough. Peyton probably tripped over her own boots and exaggerated the whole thing to get Clara's attention. Clara’s always been jealous of Bryce because he’s the only grandson who carries the Vance name."
"It doesn't matter who tripped over what!" Arthur shouted back, his hand coming down on his knee. "She has the money, Nelson! Without her, this family doesn't have a winter budget. You call her right now. You tell her that if she doesn't turn that card back on before the banks close at noon, I will disinherit her from the estate."
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Nelson let out a dry, hollow laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across a driveway. "Disinherit her from what, Dad? The Victorian has a half-million-dollar structural mortgage that Clara's company has been servicing for five years. If she pulls her name off the deed, there is no estate. There’s just a pile of historic bricks and a debt we can’t pay."
The tablet in Bryce’s hands suddenly went silent. The boy looked up, his arrogant green eyes looking from his father to his grandfather, realizing for the first time that the adults who had protected his cruelty were suddenly very small, very cold, and completely out of options.
