Chapter 57 - The Mother's False Eulogy
By morning, the rain had settled into a thick, suffocating fog that hung over the blackened ruins like a funeral shroud.
News vans from three different regional networks had lined the narrow shoulder of Blackwood Ridge Road since dawn.
Evelyn stood at the center of the media circle, dressed in a black wool mourning dress that still had the boutique tags tucked under the collar.
She was dabbing nonexistent tears from her cheeks while Pastor Dan held a microphone directly in front of her trembling lips.
"Riley was always a troubled soul," Evelyn announced to the cameras, her voice trembling with manufactured maternal heartbreak.
"We tried everything—prayer, family therapy, unconditional Christian love—but she chose the path of bitterness and sovereign defiance."
Reporters scribbled furiously on their notepads as camera shutters clattered against the backdrop of charred foundation stones.
"Are the rumors true, Mrs. Vance, that federal investigators were probing the property for illegal offshore assets?" a young journalist asked.
"Those assets were planted by people who took advantage of my poor daughter's mental illness," Evelyn lied effortlessly without blinking.
"The Vance family will not allow Blackwood Lake to remain a monument to tragedy and rebellion."
"Starting today, Grace Baptist Church will establish the Riley Vance Memorial Sanctuary right here on this very ground."
I stood among the crowd at the far perimeter of the police tape, wearing a rain-splattered oilskin jacket and a low-brimmed cap.
The soot beneath my fingernails felt like powdered iron, grounding me as I listened to my mother rewrite my murder in real time.
She believed the scorched bedrock held no secrets left to challenge her fabricated narrative.
She did not know that less than three hours ago, I had visited the county clerk’s satellite drop-box in neighboring Mercer County.
Sheriff Thomas stepped out of the command trailer, his expression colder than the mountain morning, holding a yellow manila folder.
Two federal agents flanked him, their eyes fixed not on the reporters, but directly on Evelyn’s designer handbag.
"Mrs. Vance, that will be enough for the cameras," Sheriff Thomas announced, his heavy boots crunching against the wet gravel.
Evelyn turned with a dazzling, piteous smile, expecting the law to offer its condolences and hand over the keys to the county gate.
"Oh, Sheriff, thank you for your service in this dark hour," she purred, reaching out her manicured hand.
"Save it, Evelyn," Thomas said flatly, refusing to take her hand in front of the live broadcasting lenses.
"We just received an emergency injunction filed electronically at four-thirty this morning from an encrypted sovereign trust."
Evelyn’s smile froze on her face, the rouge on her cheeks suddenly looking like cracked paint on a crumbling wall.
"An injunction? That’s impossible, the property owner is deceased!" Pastor Dan snapped, stepping defensively into the Sheriff’s path.
"The coroner found no human remains in the basement or the escape crawlway," the lead federal agent stated, stepping into the light.
"And more importantly, the electronic trust transferred sixty-four pages of Swiss shell bank statements straight to the United States Attorney."
The reporters immediately stopped listening to Evelyn, their microphones swinging violently toward the federal badge.
"What kind of bank statements, Agent?" a reporter shouted, pushing against the yellow cordon.
"The kind that show Evelyn Vance receiving three hundred thousand dollars a month from a human trafficking cartel operating out of Geneva."
Evelyn gasped, clutching her pearls as the color drained completely from her face until she looked as dead as she wished I were.
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"That’s a lie! That’s demonic slander!" Evelyn screamed, her pious facade cracking into hideous, shrieking hysteria.
Through the parting sea of onlookers, she caught a glimpse of a silhouette standing by the pine grove—watching her with eyes of steel.
