Chapter 5 - The Exclusion of the Blood
Julian stood on the gravel driveway, the white linen of his suit looking suddenly cheap and yellow under the harsh midday sun. He looked around at the guests who had been his inner circle since childhood; none of them were looking back at him. The mayor was already inside his limousine, the black car moving slowly toward the outer gates where the sheriff's deputies were directing traffic.
"You think you've won because you bought the brick, Elena?" Julian whispered, his face inches from mine, his breath smelling of the sour bourbon he had used to toast his new life an hour ago. "You think you can destroy me by taking the house? I still have the technology. NextGen still owns the automated port clearance algorithms. By tomorrow morning, I’ll have a new credit facility from the Atlanta banks, and I’ll have a family to carry my name. You’re still just a childless accountant living in a rented flat."
"You don't have the technology, Julian," I said, my voice dropping into that absolute, unyielding register I used when closing out a non-performing asset line. "The port clearance algorithms were patented under a joint development agreement with my grandfather’s logistics firm in 2021. Because you signed the dissolution agreement on Thursday without reviewing the intellectual property exclusions in Section Nine, those licenses automatically reverted to Vance Enterprises upon your separation from the CFO position. NextGen is an empty shell, Julian. It owns twelve desktop computers, six leased servers, and an office coffee maker that hasn't been paid for yet."
Behind him, Khloe let out a low, whimpering cry, her hand slipping from her parasol as she collapsed onto the stone steps of the portico. Her yellow silk dress was stained with the grey dust of the limestone, her hair coming loose from its southern pins.
"Julian," she sobbed, her hand reaching out for his trouser leg. "Julian, my stomach. The stress... the babies... call the private doctor."
"The private doctor won't answer, Khloe," I said, stepping past Julian until I was looking down at her. "The Montgomery family medical line was canceled at five-thirty yesterday. If you want an ambulance, you’re going to have to use the municipal dispatch pool like everyone else in this county."
Nelson stepped out from the shadow of the main tent, his face pale, his blue blazer open to reveal a sweat-stained shirt. He looked at me with an expression that was half-terror and half-greed, his hand reaching out toward my shoulder as if he could still use his status as my older brother to salvage his place in the wreckage.
"Elena," Nelson muttered, his voice shaking. "Elena, listen to me. We’re family. We can work this out with the grandfather’s trustees. I can manage the port relations for your new holding firm. You need someone who knows the local people."
"These bastards don't possess a single drop of my blood!" Julian suddenly screamed, his fist trembling with psychotic rage as he turned on Nelson, his voice echoing off the brick facade of the mansion like a shot. He didn't look at me; he looked at his consultant, his face distorted by a realization that had nothing to do with the bank accounts or the property titles.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a duplicate copy of the Savannah Forensic Genetics Laboratory report—the one I had dropped onto the champagne table five minutes ago while the sheriff's deputies were reading the eviction order.
"You think I didn't see the mail log, Nelson?" Julian roared, his hand striking my brother across the cheek with a flat, wet sound that made the remaining caterers freeze in the tents. "You think I didn't see where the corporate apartment vouchers were going while my wife was in New York? You’ve been living off my company, sleeping in my bed, and now you’ve put your white-trash northern blood into my family registry!"
Nelson took a step back, his hand coming up to touch the red mark on his face, his eyes shifting toward the gate where the last of the limousines was disappearing into the river fog. He didn't deny it; he couldn't. The genetic sequence charts were lying on the gravel between them, their red headers bright and clear under the noon light.
"Julian, please," Khloe wept from the stairs, her fingers clawing at the stone. "It was just the spring... the port project was so lonely... you were always at the coding office..."
Julian didn't look down at her. He didn't look at the twins she was carrying. He looked at the white brick columns of his father's house, where a moving man in grey overalls was currently carrying the historic oil painting of the first Montgomery governor out toward a flatbed truck.
"It’s over, Julian," I said, my hand closing the briefcase latch with a clean, metallic snap. "The liabilities have been isolated. The asset line has been cleared. The risk is zero."
May you like
I turned away from the portico, my heels clicking with that same mechanical, unyielding rhythm as I walked down the gravel driveway toward my sedan. Sarah and Marcus followed close behind me, their binders tucked under their arms, their faces holding the absolute neutrality of professional executioners.
Behind us, the bronze fountain in the Italian garden let out a long, sputtering hiss as the county water authority worker turned the main valve off from the street curb, leaving the stone basin dry and black under the grey Savannah moss.
