Chapter 2 - Blood Money and Bloodlines

Orson walked into the foyer like a king inspecting a pigpen. He didn't even look at Juniper, who was still trembling on the floor. His cold gray eyes locked directly onto me.

"Take your hands off your sister," Orson commanded, tossing the heavy envelope onto the coffee table. "You're acting like a hysterical peasant, Austin."

"She almost killed my daughter, Dad!" I stood up slowly, positioning my body like a wall between them and Juniper. "Did you hear what I said? Look at the video! Willa caught both of you!"

Willa held the phone out, but Orson didn't even glance at it. He stepped forward and deliberately knocked the phone out of Willa’s hand. The glass cracked against the floor.

"Willa, go home," Orson said softly, though the menace in his tone was unmistakable. "Or your mother loses her stipend by five o'clock today."

Willa froze. Tears of humiliation and rage welled in her eyes, but she backed toward the front door. "You're monsters. Both of you." She turned and ran out, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind her.

Now it was just the four of us.

"Look at this," Orson pointed at the envelope on the table. "Sign the custody waiver and the trust relinquishment. You take Juniper to some dry climate out West, live on a modest monthly allowance, and you never step foot in this county again."

"Custody waiver?" I laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "She’s my daughter. Sarah died giving birth to her, but her name is on that birth certificate with mine. You don't have custody rights to waive!"

"I have the best probate and family attorneys in the state," Orson said coldly. "And after the report Tabitha and I filed with Child Protective Services this morning about your unstable violent outbursts—backed by the red mark on your sister's face—you won't have custody by Friday."

Tabitha smiled behind our father. It was the same smug, untouchable smirk she’d worn since we were children.

"You fabricated a report?" My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. "You used her medical vulnerability to stage a neglect case?"

"A girl with brittle asthma needs resources," Tabitha chimed in, stepping around our father. "You’re a freelance carpenter, Austin. You barely keep health insurance on her. Give her to an authorized private guardian—someone Dad appoints—or watch her end up in the state ward while you sit in a county jail cell for domestic assault."

"I would rather burn this estate to the ground," I whispered, stepping closer to them.

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"Try it," Orson sneered. "Check your phone. The county sheriff's deputy is already on his way down the driveway to serve your temporary restraining order."

Outside, the crunch of gravel beneath heavy tires signaled the arrival of a squad car.