25. Before the Fall
Thomas lay propped up against a mountain of white pillows. His skin looked like thin paper, and his eyes were cloudy, struggling to focus on the woman sitting by his side.
Helena held a fine china cup in her hands. A few moments ago, she had tilted a tiny glass vial over the tea. Three clear droplets had fallen in, disappearing into the dark liquid without a sound.
"It's time for your tea, darling," Helena whispered.
She leaned forward and held the cup to his lips. Thomas took a slow, shaking sip. He swallowed hard, his throat moving with effort. He leaned back, his head rolling to the side.
"I feel so... heavy, Helena," Thomas muttered, "The chemo. It's ruining me. I can't think. Everything is blurry."
Helena reached out and stroked his pale forehead with her cool fingers.
She looked at him with eyes that seemed full of tears, but deep inside, they were as sharp as diamonds.
She was watching the way his pupils dilated, measuring the effect of the medicine she had been adding to his life for months.
"I know, my love," she said softly, "It is so hard to watch you suffer. It breaks my heart to see the fire going out of you. You've fought so hard."
Thomas reached out a trembling hand and caught hers. He pressed his dry lips to her knuckles. "You are an angel," he breathed. "A saint. I don't know what I would have done without you. Thank you... thank you for making this easier. For being the light at the end of the tunnel."
Helena let a single tear roll down her cheek. She looked like the perfect picture of a grieving wife, a woman whose world was about to end.
"Don't speak of the end," she choked out. "I don't know how I will breathe when you are gone. I will be destroyed, Thomas. Completely destroyed. I'll have nothing left but the memories of you."
Thomas felt a surge of protective love through the fog in his brain. He tried to sit up, but he was too weak.
"I won't let you be destroyed," he said, his voice gaining a tiny bit of strength, "I have made sure of that. I have worked my whole life so that my family never has to worry. There is enough money for generations to come. I am not leaving little Josephine or my beautiful wife empty-handed."
Helena kept her face hidden, her lips curling into a tiny, secret smile that he couldn't see.
"The company," Thomas continued, "Alexander and Violet.
.. they are the future. They own eighty percent.
Forty each. It is their birthright. But the rest..
. I am leaving ten percent of the shares to you, Helena.
And ten percent to our Josie. It will stay in a trust until she is of age. I've already set it all up."
Helena looked up, "No, Thomas. No. I don't want the money. I don't want the shares. I only want you! Please, don't talk about wills and lawyers. It feels so cold."
Thomas shook his head, a look of stubborn pride crossing his wasted face, "I take care of my family, Helena.
That is what a man does. I've already taken care of everything.
I sent the final will to the lawyer this morning.
The one you recommended to me last month-Mr. Theodore Hale.
He called me an hour ago to say he received it. It's done."
Helena smiled, Theodore Hale was her man. He was the one who would make sure the final will looked exactly the way she wanted it to look once Thomas was gone.
"You are too good to us," Helena whispered, leaning in to kiss his cheek. She could smell the metallic scent of his sickness, but she didn't flinch. She just tucked the blanket tighter around his thin chest, "Sleep now. Let the tea help you rest."
Thomas nodded, his eyelids fluttering. The drugs were pulling him down into the dark again. "You're..." he mumbled. "... my angel..."
Helena sat perfectly still, her eyes fixed on Thomas as his head slumped back against the pillows.
Suddenly, the mask of the grieving angel shattered.
Helena's face contorted into a mask of pure hatred. She didn't let a sound escape into the room, but she shoved her own fist into her mouth, biting down on her knuckles until she tasted salt, and let out a silent, muffled scream. The pressure in her chest was a living thing, clawing to get out.
She looked at him-so weak, so pathetic-and a wild, dark impulse took hold of her.
She grabbed the spare velvet pillow from the armchair and stood over him.
She gripped the edges of the fabric until her nails threatened to tear the seams. She hovered the pillow just inches above his face.
All it would take was a minute. One minute of pressure, and the "angel" would finally be a widow.
Her breath came in fast, hot puffs. Her arms shook with the urge to press down, to end the waiting, to stop his weak heart herself.
Then, with a hiss of disgust, she threw the pillow across the room. It hit a lamp and fell uselessly to the floor.
"You're already a dead man," she whispered, "Why waste the effort of killing you?"
She began to pace the length of the Persian rug, her fingers digging into her palms. "Ten percent," she hissed, "Ten fucking percent? After months of playing nurse? After months of touching your cold dead skin and listening to your boring stories? You think ten percent is enough for me?"
She looked at the safe in the corner of the room, knowing exactly what was written in the documents he had sent to the lawyer.
"Eighty percent to those brats," she spat, "The houses, the cars, the yachts, the jewelry, the art... all of it goes to Alexander and Violet. They get the world, and I get the crumbs? I get a trust fund for my daughter?!"
She stopped at the foot of his bed, looking down at his sunken chest.
"I won't just take my ten percent, Thomas," she whispered, leaning over him so her breath hit his ear.
"I am going to take it all. I'll take the company.
I'll take the houses. I'll take the very air out of your children's lungs.
By the time I am finished, there won't be a single cent left for the Van Alen name. "
She reached out and smoothed the blanket over his chest.
"Sleep well, my love," she sneered.
She had spent months cutting the threads that tied Thomas to the world. One by one, his oldest friends had stopped calling. She had whispered in his ear that they were only hanging around to see what they could get from a dying man.
She had replaced his accountants with "family friends" who reported only to her. She had pushed aside his long-time lawyers for her own hungry sharks. She had turned his world into a tiny island where she was the only person he could trust.
But then her mind turned to Violet, and her jaw tightened until it ached.
Violet was intelligent-too sharp. She had seen the way Violet looked at the tea, the way she checked the medicine bottles when she thought Helena wasn't looking.
The girl had tried to take over the company books, tried to sit in on the meetings, tried to be the wall between her father and the woman she clearly didn't trust.
Helena remembered the day Violet had begged Thomas to hire an independent medical team.
"Dad, please," Violet had cried, "I just want a second opinion. Helena is exhausted, she shouldn't have to do this all alone."
Helena had waited until Violet left the room, then she had turned on the waterworks.
She had looked at Thomas with big, watery eyes and told him how hurt she was.
She had told him that Violet thought she was incompetent, that his daughter was trying to push her out of his final days because she was jealous of their love.
And Thomas, confused and drugged into a fog, had snapped at his own daughter. He had called Violet ungrateful. He had told her to leave her mother alone.
Helena savored the memory of the look on Violet's face, the pure, heart-shattering shock. It was Helena's favorite weapon: making Thomas believe that his own flesh and blood were the enemies, while the woman poisoning him was his only protector.
Helena stepped out of the bedroom, her face instantly shifting. She pulled the door shut with a soft click, as if afraid to disturb a sleeping child.
Violet was standing right there in the hallway. She looked exhausted, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, her eyes scanning Helena's face with a look that was both searching and deeply suspicious. Violet's hand was already hovering over the brass doorknob.
Helena moved quickly, placing a gentle hand on Violet's arm to block her path.
"Shh," Helena whispered, "He just fell asleep. He had such a hard night, Violet. Please, just let him rest."
Violet's eyes narrowed. She didn't pull away, but she didn't step back either. She looked at Helena's hand on her arm with disgust. "Let go of me, Helena. I need to see him. I need to check his chart."
"You can't," Helena snapped, "He needs peace. You're only going to stress him out, and his heart is so weak right now."
Violet's jaw tightened. She jerked her arm away, her eyes flashing with anger, "You don't get to decide when I see my own father. You don't get to tell me what I can and can't do in this house."
Helena tilted her head, giving Violet a look of patronizing pity. She reached out and tucked a stray hair behind Violet's ear, a gesture meant to be sweet but which felt like a threat, "But I can, sweetie. I am your mother."
Violet let out a bitter laugh. She took a step closer, "My mother is dead.
You're nothing but the woman he married when he was already dying, a woman who showed up just in time to collect a paycheck," Violet's eyes traveled over Helena's body with cold disdain, "Remember your place, Helena.
You were a housekeeper. You're still a housekeeper in my eyes. Now get out of my way."
Helena's eyes turned into two cold, dark stones. She leaned in, her voice a whisper that was meant only for Violet's ears.
"Do you want to know the truth, Violet?" Helena hissed, "He doesn't even like you. He tells me how much he regrets having a daughter. He said you were a mistake. He told me he wished Alexander had been the firstborn-at least your brother isn't an incompetent little bitch."
Violet's face went white, then a deep, burning red. Before Helena could even blink, Violet's hand swung through the air.
SLAP.
Helena's head snapped to the side. Her cheek began to pulse with a bright, hot sting.
For a heartbeat, Helena stayed perfectly still. Then, like a switch being flipped, she began to wail. She collapsed against the wall, sobbing so loudly and so violently that anyone hearing it would think Violet had tried to kill her. Tears streamed down her face, ruining her perfect makeup,
"Oh, you stupid little cunt," Helena whispered, her voice a mix of fake sobs and real venom.
She looked up at Violet through her messy hair, "You have no idea what you just started.
That slap? That was the last bit of power you will ever have in this house.
I'm going to make you pay for that, Violet.
I'm going to make you pay until you have nothing left. "
Two police officers stood in their living room, their notebooks out. They looked at Helena with pure pity, she looked like a fragile bird that had been crushed.
"I just don't understand," Helena wailed, she looked up at the lead officer, her lip quivering, "I was only trying to tell her that her father needed rest. I love that girl like she's my own, but she... she just snapped."
Violet stood at the top of the stairs, her hands gripped so tight on the railing that her knuckles were white. She looked down at the scene with a face of pure stone, but inside, her heart was thundering.
"She's lying!" Violet shouted, "She's a liar! She provoked me! She said horrible things about my father!"
Helena let out a fresh sob and buried her face in her hands. "See? See how she screams? She's been like this for weeks. Ever since Thomas got sicker, she's become... unstable. She's so jealous that he turns to me for comfort. She thinks I'm stealing him away."
The lead officer looked up at Violet. To him, Violet didn't look like a grieving daughter, she looked like a rich, spoiled girl losing her mind.
"Miss Van Alen, please step down here," the officer commanded.
"She tried to kill me," Helena whispered, loud enough for both officers to hear.
She pulled the ice pack away to reveal the dark, angry bruise on her face.
"She screamed that she would finish what the cancer started.
She said if she couldn't have his love, no one would.
I'm scared, Officer. I'm truly scared for my life.
I think she needs help... professional help. She isn't herself."
This was the plan. Helena wasn't just trying to get Violet arrested for a slap.
She was building a paper trail. A police report for a violent outburst. A statement about "unstable behavior.
" She was painting a picture of a violent psycho, a girl who had snapped under the pressure of her father's deathbed.
If the world believed Violet was a mental patient, it would be so easy to have her committed. It would be so easy to make her disappear into a private ward where no one would listen to her stories about poisoned tea.
"I didn't try to kill her!" Violet yelled, stepping down the stairs, "I just slapped her! She's the one who's dangerous! You have to listen to me!"
"That's enough, Miss," the second officer said, moving to intercept her, "Mrs. Van Alen has pressed charges. We're going to need you to come down to the station."
"I'm gonna call my lawyer!" Violet shrieked, struggling against his grip.
Helena watched from behind her hands. The sobbing continued, but behind her fingers, her mouth was curved into a tiny, victorious smile.
She watched the officers lead Violet toward the door.
She watched the neighbors peeking through their curtains at the "violent" Van Alen daughter being taken away in the back of a squad car.
The sun was setting over the estate, casting long, golden shadows across the grass. Eleven-year-old Alexander sat on the stone steps of the porch, trying to read a book, but a small weight kept bumping into his shoulder.
Four-year-old Josephine was waddling around him, her pigtails messy and her face smeared with something pink and sticky. She plopped down next to him, staring at him with big, curious eyes.
"Hey," she chirped. "Xaner?"
Alexander sighed and closed his book. He looked down at the little girl. "It's Alexander, Josie. Al-ex-an-der. Five syllables. Try again."
"Xaner," she repeated firmly, nodding her head as if she had nailed it.
"No," Alexander said, leaning in closer. "Listen to my mouth. Al-ex-an-der."
"Xaner!" she shouted, giggling and falling backward onto the porch.
Alexander rubbed his forehead. He looked at her small, happy face and felt his heart soften just a little bit. "Fine. You can call me Alex. Everyone calls me Alex. Even the teachers at school. It's shorter. A-lex."
Josie sat back up, her eyes bright. She scrunched up her nose and tried really hard, "Zane!"
Alexander blinked, "What? No. Alex."
"Zane!" she chirped again, clapping her hands. "Zane, Zane, Zane!"
Alexander stared at her for a long minute. He realized he was never going to win this battle. She was too small and too stubborn. "Fine," he sighed, a small smile finally breaking through his serious face. "Zane it is. But only for you."
"Zane!" she cheered, hugging his arm with her sticky hands.
"What a beautiful sight," a smooth, sweet voice called out.
Helena stepped out onto the porch. She looked like a dream in a soft white dress, her hair flowing behind her. She walked over and knelt down, pulling both Alexander and Josie into a warm, tight hug.
"My two favorite children," Helena whispered, kissing the top of Josie's head and then Alexander's forehead. "It warms my heart to see you two playing so nicely. Alexander, you are such a good big brother to her."
Alexander looked up at her, feeling a sense of pride. He liked it when Helena praised him. "I'm looking out for her, Helena," then he looked toward the long driveway, his eyes searching, "When will Violet be home? She said she'd show me that new game today."
Helena's smile didn't disappear, but her eyes suddenly looked sad, deeply, painfully sad. She let out a long, heavy sigh and stroked Alexander's cheek.
"Oh, Alexander," she whispered, "I don't know if that's a good idea right now. Violet... she's going through a very dark time. She has so much anger inside her."
Alexander's brow furrowed, "What do you mean?"
Helena looked around as if making sure no one else was listening. She leaned in closer to them, "Violet needs professional help, honey. She's sick in her mind. If we aren't careful, she might hurt you... or even little Josie. Just like she hurt me."
Helena pulled back the sleeve of her dress just enough to show a faint red mark on her wrist. It wasn't much, but to an eleven-year-old boy, it looked like a battle wound.
"She did that?" Alexander asked, his voice shaking.
"She didn't mean to," Helena lied softly, her eyes filling with fake tears, "She just can't control herself. We have to stay together, Alexander. You, me, and Josie. We have to stay away from the darkness in that girl until the doctors can fix her. Promise me you'll keep Josie safe from her?"
Alexander looked at the small girl clinging to his arm, "I promise," Alexander said, "I won't let anyone touch us."
Helena smiled, a deep, satisfied look that Alexander was too young to understand. "Good boy. Now, let's go inside. I had the cook make your favorite cookies."