Chapter 6 - The Return to St. TammanyOn Day 68, at 4:30 p.m., the heavy wrought-iron gates of the Barrett Estate in St. Tammany swung open automatically as Tony’s black Lincoln Navigator glided up the long, oak-lined driveway.
The afternoon sun was hot, casting long, dramatic shadows across the manicured lawns.
Inside the vehicle, Sheila sat in the passenger seat, wearing an enormous pair of Italian sunglasses, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and a linen dress she had bought in Cannes. Beside her, Tony looked relaxed, holding a cigar, while Jordan sat in the back seat scrolling through his phone, complaining about the flight delay from Atlanta.
"God, I hope Rosie aired out the house," Sheila complained, checking her reflection in the visor mirror. "And someone needs to call the county worker to deal with Una's arrangements. I don't want a long, messy scene before my charity gala next week."
"Don't worry about it, Sheila," Tony said smoothly, parking the SUV in front of the sweeping marble porch. "We'll have the paramedics handle it quietly. It was a tragic medical episode while we were abroad. The story is already written."
They stepped out of the vehicle, laughing together as Tony unlocked the heavy mahogany front doors.
The house was completely dark, silent, and cold. The central air conditioning was blowing at a crisp sixty-five degrees.
"Rosie?" Sheila called out, tossing her designer handbag onto the foyer table. "Rosie, bring the luggage inside!"
No answer.
Sheila frowned, stepping into the living room. "Where is that lazy woman...?"
She stopped dead in her tracks.
Sitting in the center of the grand living room, in the plush leather armchair that Tony had always claimed as his own, was a young woman.
She wore a tailored charcoal suit, her dark hair styled in glossy, elegant waves, her skin radiant, her posture tall, broad, and sovereign. She held a crystal glass of iced water in her hand, watching them with cold, weightless gray eyes.
Beside her chair stood Marcus Vance, flanked by four uniformed Federal Marshals and two Senior Special Agents from the IRS Criminal Division.
Sheila’s designer sunglasses slipped from her hand, crashing flat onto the hardwood floorboards.
May you like
Her face drained of every single drop of color, turning an ugly, paper-white shade of green. Her jaw sagged open as she backed against the doorway, her breath hitching in a terrifying, high-pitched squeak.
"U... Una...?" Sheila whimpered, her voice cracking into a pathetic thread. "You... you're... you're standing...?"
