Chapter 51 - The Terrace Above the Sea
The Miradouro de Santa Luzia was bathed in the late-afternoon glow of the Portuguese sun. White stone arches draped in brilliant purple bougainvillea framed a panoramic view of the red tile roofs of Alfama and the shimmering expanse of the Tagus River below.
Tourists milled about the periphery, eating pastries and listening to a street musician play a melancholic fado on an acoustic guitar.
I sat on a curved stone bench near the balustrade, the black leather binder resting on my lap, my sunglasses shielding my tired eyes.
A shadow broke the sunlight across the tiles.
Julian Vance walked through the arched entryway. He wore a crisp linen jacket over an open-collared shirt, but the refinement of his posture was gone, replaced by a coiled, feral tension. He stopped five feet from my bench, his hands resting casually inside his pockets.
"You're remarkably brave for a retired school librarian, Myrna," Vance said, his voice quiet, blending seamlessly with the music of the street performer.
"I spent forty years dealing with insolent bullies, Julian," I said without looking up. "You're just the richest one."
I opened the binder, revealing the first page of certified financial forensics—the original signatures, the manifest logs of the *Mariner’s Hope*, and the undeniable paper trail proving the Vance family had engineered the disaster.
"Arthur’s work was thorough," Vance said softly, glancing at the documents. "A masterpiece of spite. Give me the binder, provide the location of the physical bonds in New Hampshire, and I swear to you, I will vanish from your family's lives forever."
"You swear?" I scoffed, finally looking up to meet his cold gaze. "Your word is worth less than the paper Tori forged."
"Perhaps," Vance said, a slow, terrible smile spreading across his thin lips. "But you forgot one very important detail, Myrna."
He slowly pulled his right hand from his pocket. He wasn't holding a weapon. He was holding a sleek, silver tablet, its screen illuminating in the golden afternoon light.
He turned the screen toward me.
The display showed a live video feed from inside a vehicle. Sitting in the passenger seat, visibly shaking and handcuffed to the door frame, was not Caleb. It was not one of my grandchildren.
It was Patrice.
May you like
And standing next to the vehicle, holding an automatic weapon against the glass, was a man I recognized instantly from the legal proceedings back home—Tori’s court-appointed defense attorney.
"Did you really think Tori was the only one I bought?" Vance whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from my ear. "Now, Myrna... give me the book, or tell Patrice goodbye."
