Chapter 12 - The Vulture’s Last Stand
Three days later,
the peace of the farm was shattered by the sound of a failing engine and the screech of tires on gravel.
I didn't need to look at the monitors to know who it was.
The desperation has a specific sound,
a high-pitched whine that precedes a collapse.
I walked out onto the porch,
the heavy iron gate that Sterling had installed remaining firmly locked between me and the driveway.
Mason’s car—the one I had paid for—shuddered to a halt just outside the bars.
He stepped out,
looking like a man who had been sleeping in his clothes for a week.
His eyes were bloodshot,
and his hair was a tangled mess of grease and sweat.
He looked at the gate,
then at the cameras,
and finally at me.
"Mom!"
he screamed,
his voice cracking like dry wood.
"Open this gate!
Open it right now!"
I stayed where I was,
clutching the railing of the porch,
my face a mask of iron.
"You are trespassing,
Mason,"
I said,
my voice amplified by the intercom system.
"The police have already been notified of your presence."
He threw himself against the bars,
the metal clanging with a hollow,
lonely sound.
"You can't do this to me!
Harper left!
She took the last of the money and went to her sister’s in Reno!"
I felt a flicker of something in my chest—not pity,
but a strange,
clinical interest.
So,
the partner in his crime had fled the moment the ship began to sink.
It was predictable.
Greed is a poor foundation for a marriage,
and Harper was a woman built for fair weather and easy pickings.
"She’s gone,
Mom!
I have nowhere else to go!
I’m your son!"
He was sobbing now,
the sound of a child who had finally realized the world would not bend to his tantrums.
"You were my son,"
I said,
the words feeling heavy and final in my mouth.
"But then you decided that I was an object.
You decided I was a bank account with a heartbeat."
"I was just stressed!"
he yelled,
his face pressed against the cold steel.
"We were in debt!
I thought if I could just get the house,
I could fix everything!
I was doing it for us,
Mom!"
The lie was so transparent,
so pathetic,
that it actually made me feel embarrassed for him.
He was still trying to manipulate me,
still trying to find the soft spot in my heart where he used to hide.
"You were doing it for yourself,
Mason,"
I said.
"You were ready to put me in a facility that cost two thousand dollars a month because it was the cheapest way to dispose of me.
I heard you say it.
I heard you laugh about it."
His sobbing stopped abruptly.
The mask of the victim fell away,
replaced by the sneer of the predator I had seen at the gala.
"You think you’re so smart now,
don't you?"
he hissed,
his voice low and venomous.
"You think because you have a little bit of money and a big piece of dirt,
you’re better than me?
You’re just an old woman,
Eleanor.
You’re going to die out here alone,
and no one will care."
"Maybe,"
I replied,
feeling a strange sense of calm.
"But I will die free.
And I will die knowing that I didn't let you take the last of my dignity."
The sound of sirens began to wail in the distance,
growing louder with every passing second.
Mason looked down the road,
panic flaring in his eyes.
He scrambled back into his car,
the tires spinning in the loose gravel as he tried to turn around.
He nearly hit the fence as he sped away,
a cloud of dust trailing behind him like a funeral shroud.
I watched him go,
until the taillights disappeared around the bend.
I didn't feel the triumph I had expected.
I felt only a profound,
hollow sadness for the boy I had lost,
and a grim satisfaction for the woman I had saved.
The police cruiser pulled up a minute later,
the lights flashing blue and red against the farmhouse walls.
I walked down to the gate to meet them.
"Did he threaten you,
Mrs. Brooks?"
the officer asked,
his hand resting on his belt.
"No,"
I said,
looking at the empty road.
May you like
"He just tried to remind me of who I used to be.
But he forgot that I’ve changed the locks."
