Eleanor turned her slate-gray eyes onto the digital terminal in his lap:
“You spent thirty years looking at the Vance-Sterling Maritime Trust, Arthur, and seeing nothing but offshore bank accounts in Switzerland and real estate easements in Denver.”
“You forgot who designed the trust.”
“You forgot who drafted the sovereign covenants in nineteen-seventy-eight.”
Eleanor leaned down until her face was four inches from her brother’s nose:
“I didn’t suffer an accidental breakdown on Route Six this morning, Arthur.”
“I drove past that Lookout Mountain exit at seven-forty-five because I knew your contractor, Carter Holbrook, had tampered with my climate control system.”
“I knew you were waiting at Vanguard Creative Group to sign the liquidation of my shipping terminals.”
“And I knew…”
Eleanor turned her gaze back to where I stood:
“…that Sebastian Miller was scheduled to drive past that exact pylon at seven-forty-six.”
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The room seemed to lose its gravitational center in a single, catastrophic instant.
