Chapter 1: The Gathering
The rain battered against the leaded glass windows of Sterling Manor, sounding less like weather and more like pebbles being thrown by an angry ghost. Martha Evans, sixty-four years old and wearing the same black uniform she had worn for three decades, stood silently in the corner of the mahogany-paneled library. She wasn’t a guest. She was the help. But she was also the only person in the room who had shed a tear when Arthur Sterling took his final breath three days ago.
In the center of the room sat the vultures.
Richard, the eldest at fifty-eight, checked his Rolex for the third time in a minute. He looked less like a grieving son and more like a man late for a board meeting. His suit was Italian, but Martha noticed the fraying at the cuffs. Rumor in the kitchen was that Richard’s "empire" was built on a foundation of maxed-out credit cards.
"Where is Blackwood?" Richard snapped, drumming his fingers on the leather armrest. "The service ended two hours ago. Some of us have flights to catch."
"Oh, stop posturing, Richard," Sarah sighed. She was fifty-two and currently examining a Ming vase on the mantelpiece with the eye of an auctioneer rather than a daughter. "We all know you’re flying commercial. Daddy cut your private jet allowance six months ago."
"Shut up, Sarah," came a voice from the sofa. David, the baby of the family at forty-five, looked disheveled. He smelled faintly of bourbon and stale smoke. He hadn’t bothered to wear a tie. "Does it matter? By tonight, we’ll all be rich enough to buy our own jets. The old man was worth four billion. Even a third of that fixes everything."
Martha tightened her grip on the silver serving tray. The old man. That was all Arthur was to them. Not a father who taught them to ride bikes, not the man who built a steel dynasty from scrap metal. Just an obstacle between them and a bank transfer.
The heavy oak doors creaked open. The room went silent.
Mr. Blackwood entered. At seventy, he was as stiff and unyielding as the furniture. He carried a battered leather briefcase that looked as old as the house itself. He didn't look at the children. He walked straight to the head of the room, placed the briefcase on Arthur’s massive desk, and sat down.
"Get on with it, Blackwood," Richard demanded, leaning forward. "Read the will. Let’s see who got the summer house."
Mr. Blackwood adjusted his spectacles. "Arthur Sterling was a man of precision," the lawyer said, his voice gravelly. "He updated his Last Will and Testament one week ago."
"One week?" Sarah dropped the vase she was holding. It didn't break, but the clatter echoed like a gunshot. "He was on morphine. He wasn't lucid!"
"He was perfectly lucid," Blackwood corrected. "And he decided against a traditional reading."
The lawyer clicked the latches of the briefcase. Snap. Snap. The sound was deafening in the quiet room. The siblings leaned in, their eyes hungry, expecting stacks of legal documents, deeds, and bond certificates.
Instead, Blackwood reached in and pulled out a single, dusty object that confused them all.
It wasn’t a stack of papers. It was an old, black VHS tape with a handwritten label that simply read: The Truth. Blackwood walked over to the dusty television cart in the corner and inserted the tape. "You might want to sit down," he said. "Your father has a few things to say before we discuss the money."
