“The nursing home is perfect for you, Mom,” they m0cked as they closed the door of my mansion, underestimating that six months later they would be in a cell while I toasted to my freedom.
The rain battered the penthouse windows of the Bellmore Hotel as if the sky itself had turned against it. But the cold that wrapped around Eleanor Vance had nothing to do with the weather. At seventy, she stood upright and composed in the suite she had called home for four decades, facing the two people…
