Triptych (Will Trent #1) - Karin Slaughter Page 0,162
you!”
The vase was probably worth more than he’d made since leaving the joint, but John didn’t give a shit about money. There were rich people all over the world who were living in their own prisons, trapped by greed, shut off from the world around them. All he wanted right now was his freedom, and he was going to do whatever it took to get it back.
He asked his sister, “How much do you think this house is worth?”
Joyce stood frozen in place, her mouth gaping open. Any conflict in her life usually consisted of heated negotiations and thinly veiled threats made across a polished conference table or martinis at the club. A veiled threat didn’t count for much at Coastal State Prison.
John guessed, “Quarter of a million dollars? Half a million?”
Joyce shook her head, too shocked to respond.
“You!” Lydia said, her voice shrill with anger. “You have exactly one minute to get out of this house before I call the police and have you arrested.”
“A million bucks?” John prodded. “Come on, Joycey. You handle real estate closings all day. You know how much a house is worth.”
Joyce shook her head like she couldn’t understand. But then she did something that surprised him. She glanced nervously around the room, took in the two-story cathedral ceiling, the large windows looking onto the graciously manicured back lawn. When she looked back at John, he could tell that she was still confused. But she trusted him. She trusted him enough to say, “Three.”
“Three million,” John echoed, incredulous. He’d thought he was rich when he cleaned out the thirty-eight hundred dollars Michael had left in the fake John’s banking account.
He said, “Divide that by twenty years, you get—what—about a hundred fifty thousand bucks a year?”
Joyce was slowly getting it. “Yeah, Johnny. That’s about right.”
“Doesn’t seem like nearly enough, does it?”
His sister’s eyes sparkled. She smiled. “No.”
“What do you think she has in the bank?” He turned back to Lydia. “Maybe I should be directing these questions to you?”
“You should be walking out of that door if you know what’s good for you.”
“What kind of car do you drive? Mercedes? BMW?” He felt like a lawyer on a television program. Maybe he could have been a lawyer. If Michael Ormewood had never entered his life, maybe John Shelley could have been a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher or a…what? What could he have been? He would never know. No one would ever know.
“John?” Joyce sounded concerned. He had gone too quiet.
His voice was not as strong when he asked Lydia, “How about that ring on your finger? What’s that worth?”
“Get out of my house.”
“You’re a lawyer,” John told her. “You’ve obviously made a very good living by suing people for everything they’ve got.” He indicated the house, her useless things.
“I want you out of here,” Lydia commanded. “I want you out of here right now.”
“I want this house,” he told her, walking around the room, wondering what would make her break. He pulled a monochromatic canvas off the wall. “I want this,” he said, dropping it to the floor as he continued his stroll. “I want that piano.”
He walked over to Joyce’s side, thinking that no matter what happened, nothing would be more valuable to him than knowing she believed in him. Michael had tried to destroy him, but he was gone now. Nothing could change the past. All they could focus on now was their future.
He asked his sister, “How many times did Mom yell at us about practicing our scales?”
“All the time.”
John trailed his hand along the keys. “She’d like this,” he said, playing a couple of notes he remembered from a million years ago. “She’d like the idea of me taking up the piano again.”
“Yeah,” Joyce agreed, a sad smile on her face. “I think she would.”
“You can stop right there,” Lydia barked.
John warned, “I think you should be careful how you talk to me.”
Lydia tucked a hand onto her hip. “You don’t have nearly the grounds you need for a criminal conviction. Even with this recent…innuendo…you have leveled against my son, you don’t have proof of anything.”
“The burden of proof is lower in a civil suit. You know that.”
“Have you any idea how many years I can hold up depositions and hearings?” She gave a crocodile grin that showed pearly white teeth. She made her voice softer, frail. “I’m an old woman. This has been a terrible shock. I have my good days and my bad…”