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I can’t help but hold my breath as I survey what was once an opulent estate—the pride and joy of the late Richard Shaw who attended to every aspect of its meticulous upkeep. It once was a home, with stunning art, fresh flowers, gourmet meals, and breathtaking gardens. It’s now a haunted manor unfit for human habitation. Animal feces are smeared all over the marble of the great foyer. Shattered gin bottles and scattered newspapers and unopened mail litter the floor. Even leaves and detritus from the yard have blown in, as if nature is making its best effort to reclaim Wainscott Hollow, drag it back into the dirt, and bury it six feet under.
It may be worth ten million dollars, but the inside has deteriorated so severely, the once stately manor is beginning to look like a teardown. I attempt to step forward, and my boots stick to the floor, which likely hasn’t seen a mop since I left five years ago. This grand estate has become Henry’s private insane asylum.
A humorless laugh catches in my throat. “Who’s the gutter rat now, Henry?” I’m almost sad for him, but my pity has standards higher than Henry Shaw. He’s done this to himself.
“Get the hell out of my house!” he screams. “You’re not welcome here, you interloper. Leave!” Rage flashes in his beady eyes and his grotesque face turns a darker shade of red. Spittle flies from his lips as he curses me, and I can see he’s not well. Young Shaw has passed the point of no return. There isn’t much left in him, and soon I imagine he’ll be dragging his liver behind him in a box if he doesn’t lay off the booze.
I remember the look in his eyes like it was yesterday. When we were kids, he used to get the same look before charging at Kat or me in one of his violent rages. It looks like he’s got the same idea in mind as he lunges forward, loses his balance, and tumbles down the stairs like an old forgotten ragdoll.
I don’t even attempt to break his fall, as I’m sure this must be a daily occurrence for him. Someday soon, if he’s not careful, this is the way he’ll break his neck and end up confined to a wheelchair. Or he’ll land with a crumpled leg at a grotesquely awkward angle, a compound fracture bursting through the skin. Or perhaps one day he’ll wander down to the dunes, pass out in the sand and drown in the shallows of the shores of Montauk like his beloved mother before him. Any of the viable scenarios do not look good. I don’t feel glee at his demise, only disgust at his absolute debasement. Henry has become a bottom feeder, a slithering slug.
I step to him, my leather boots shining bright in the light of the crystal chandelier. Looking down at the pathetic man at my feet, I breathe a sigh of relief. This is not worse than I expected, perhaps accelerated, but not exactly a surprise.
Removing the deed from the inside of my suit jacket, I drop it on his huddled frame. He curls into a fetal position without looking at it.
“Correction, dear brother. This is my house. Wainscott Hollow was in bank foreclosure and Dad wouldn’t have wanted that, so I did us all a favor and rescued the estate before they evicted you and tossed all of Dad’s treasures into the dump. You’re welcome.”
“Bullshit! A loser like you could never afford a down payment on a place like Wainscott Hollow. Besides, the county covenant says no new buyers, only established family names can purchase property in Montauk.”
“Oh, but I can, and I did. Did you forget I’m legally a Shaw, dear brother? I am family and enjoy the privileges Dad intended for me when he adopted me.”
“Doesn’t matter. She’ll never want you. You’re just like me now, someone she can’t stand.”
Not many threats or insults can make my blood run cold, make the hair on my arm and the back of my neck stand at attention, but anything about Kat elicits this kind of response.
Removing my suit jacket, I place it on the staircase railing and proceed to roll up my shirt sleeves. Something about a suit jacket makes people believe you’re not capable of beating the shit out of them. Perhaps that’s why so many in organized crime wear them. An illusion of a professional upstanding citizen, when reality dictates we are capable of the most debase crimes, chopping off fingers or ears without so much as a blink of an eye.
“You know, Henry, I’ve got so many years of payback to dish out. I think it’s only fair to draw out the torture, don’t you? I don’t want to kill you. What would be the point of that?”
