Chapter 3

Eleanor stood, her hand tightening on her cane. "Problem?"

Tiffany advanced, her friends flanking her like well-dressed vultures. "Yes, problem. Lingering around, consorting with the staff, making the place look shabby. You' re a disgrace."

Consorting with staff? Eleanor glanced back, Sarah was framed in the doorway, her face pale with alarm.

"This is my home," Eleanor stated, her voice quiet but firm.

Tiffany laughed, a short, ugly sound. "Your home? Don' t be ridiculous. You' re squatting. And I heard you' ve been spreading nasty stories."

Before Eleanor could react, Tiffany' s hand lashed out, slapping her hard across the face.

The force of it staggered Eleanor, her cheek stinging.

"Mrs. Vance!" Sarah cried, rushing forward. "You can' t do this!"

Tiffany barely glanced at Sarah. "Oh, look, the vagrant has a pet servant."

Eleanor, stunned by the assault, by the sheer venom, tried to gather herself. "Insolence! I am..."

Tiffany' s hand came again, another sharp slap. This time, Eleanor stumbled, her bad leg giving way slightly.

Sarah reached for Eleanor, trying to steady her, to shield her. "Stop it! You don' t know who you' re dealing with! This is Mrs. Vance!"

Tiffany' s eyes narrowed, focusing on Sarah with contempt. "So, the servant speaks for her undesirable mistress? How touching."

One of Tiffany' s friends, a tall blonde, grabbed Sarah' s arms, pulling her back.

Tiffany looked around, her gaze falling on a small, ornate letter opener lying on a nearby garden table, left there from Eleanor' s morning mail. She snatched it up.

"She tried to protect you," Tiffany sneered at Eleanor, then turned to Sarah, who struggled against the blonde' s grip. "Loyalty should be rewarded."

With a swift, impulsive movement, Tiffany lunged and plunged the letter opener into Sarah' s chest.

Sarah gasped, a choked sound. Her eyes widened in shock, then glazed over. She slumped, lifeless, as the blonde let her go.

Eleanor stared, horrified, Sarah' s body crumpling to the ground in a pool of blood that spread quickly on the cottage porch.

Sarah. Her friend.

The world tilted. Eleanor remembered Michael' s words about Tiffany, "She has such a good character, Mother. So kind."

A cold dread filled Eleanor. She looked at Tiffany, at the blood on her hands, on the letter opener.

"Michael," Eleanor said, her voice trembling but gaining a sliver of its old authority. "Michael will not spare you for this. For any of this."

Tiffany scoffed, wiping the letter opener on her expensive jeans. "Michael? Darling, Michael adores me. He' ll do anything I say. Besides, my father is a very powerful man. He can make problems disappear."

Her friends murmured agreement, their earlier shock replaced by a sick excitement.

"She' s right, Tiff," one said. "Make an example of this old hag. Show everyone you' re in charge before the Gala."

Eleanor straightened, pain and grief warring with a rising fury. "Do you even know who I am?"

Tiffany rolled her eyes. "Some nobody. A delusional old woman. That' s all."