Chapter 2: The Vulture's Toll

Chapter 2: The Vulture's Toll

The Abernathy & Sons Funeral Home smelled of lilies and lemon polish, a cloying combination designed to soothe, but which only served to set Elara’s teeth on edge. The air was thick with a hushed reverence that felt fraudulent. Her father had despised this kind of stuffy formality. “When I go,” he used to say, a twinkle in his tired eyes, “just stick me in a pine box and have a beer. None of this fancy nonsense.”

Elara clutched her father’s pre-need funeral agreement in her hands, the paper a tangible link to his wishes. It was all there in black and white: paid in full, with a clear stipulation for simple cremation. She’d walked in feeling a grim sense of competence, armed with the contract and the Power of Attorney document that had become her lifeline. This was supposed to be the easy part, a final act of service, executing a plan he himself had made.

Mr. Abernathy, a man whose gentle demeanor and dark suit were his professional uniform, reviewed the papers with a somber nod. “Everything seems to be in order, Ms. Vance. Your father was very thorough.” He slid the documents back across the polished mahogany desk. “There is just one final form we need. The Cremation Authorization.”

He pushed a single sheet of paper toward her. “It’s a legal requirement in this state. It must be signed by the legal next-of-kin.”

Elara reached for a pen. “That’s me. I have his durable Power of Attorney.”

Mr. Abernathy offered a sympathetic, apologetic smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m afraid, in this specific instance, the Power of Attorney expires at the moment of death. For the purposes of final disposition, the legal next-of-kin defaults to the surviving spouse.” He cleared his throat softly. “We’ll need your mother’s signature.”

The words hung in the still, lily-scented air. Elara felt a rush of cold, sickening dread, as if the floor had dropped out from under her. Of course. Of course, there was a loophole. A final, cruel piece of bureaucracy that would place her father’s body, his very last earthly vessel, back under Eleanor’s control. Her shield, the POA, had dissolved, leaving her exposed.

“She… she knows his wishes,” Elara said, her voice strained.

“I have no doubt,” Mr. Abernathy said gently. “But the law is the law. My hands are tied.”

Defeated, Elara left the funeral home and sat in her car, the unsigned form on the passenger seat mocking her. She had no choice. She drove toward the house she grew up in, the house her father had built. As she pulled into the driveway, the sight of its pristine, landscaped lawn and perfectly painted shutters filled her with a familiar sense of alienation. It was a dollhouse, and her mother was its exacting, lonely caretaker.

Eleanor opened the door before Elara could even knock, dressed in tasteful cream-colored slacks and a silk blouse, a single strand of pearls at her throat. She looked less like a grieving widow and more like she was about to host a luncheon.

“I was wondering when you’d come to your senses and deal with this properly,” Eleanor said, stepping back to let her in. She didn't offer a hug or a kind word, just an air of impatient authority.

The house was cold, despite the late spring sunshine pouring through the large windows. It smelled of potpourri and bleach. The “Live, Laugh, Love” sign in the kitchen was visible from the entryway, a monument to manufactured happiness.

“I need your signature,” Elara said, holding out the form, forgoing any preamble. “For Dad’s cremation. As he wanted.”

Eleanor didn’t even look at the paper. She glided past Elara into the living room, her movements smooth and practiced. “Ah, yes. The cremation.” She gestured to the pristine, white sofa. “Sit, Elara. We need to discuss a few things.”

Elara remained standing. “There’s nothing to discuss. Just sign the form.”

Her mother turned, and for the first time, a flicker of something hard and calculating showed through the polished veneer. “Don’t be naive. Everything is a discussion. I spoke to the bank this morning. It seems you had me temporarily removed from your father’s primary checking account, using that… document.” She said the word ‘document’ as if it were something distasteful.

“I was paying for his hospice care,” Elara said, her voice tight. “The care you refused to provide.”

“A matter of opinion,” Eleanor sniffed, waving a dismissive hand. “The point is, it’s a joint account. I am the surviving owner. But there are papers I need to sign to have my full, unrestricted access restored. And there are other assets. Your father’s workshop, his tools… they all need to be liquidated. It’s all rather messy.”

Elara felt her blood run cold. She could see where this was going. The air grew thick with the unspoken transaction.

“What do you want, Mother?”

Eleanor finally smiled, a thin, triumphant curve of her lips. “It’s very simple. I have a form from the bank right here.” She walked over to an ornate writing desk and picked up a piece of paper, holding it up. “It confirms my sole ownership of the joint accounts, and gives me authority to begin appraising the other marital assets for sale. A signature for a signature, you might say. You sign this, acknowledging the financial realities, and I’ll sign that,” she nodded toward the cremation form in Elara’s hand. “We tidy everything up in one go. It’s the most practical way.”

The vulture had named her price. The toll for her father’s peace was her signature, surrendering any claim, any say in the material legacy of his life. His beloved workshop, the tools he’d cherished, the money he’d earned—all of it would be swallowed whole by the woman who had made his last years a living hell.

Every fiber of Elara’s being screamed in protest. She wanted to rip the bank form from her mother’s hand, to tell her she’d see her in court, to fight her for every last penny out of pure, righteous spite.

But then, she thought of her father. She pictured him trapped, his final wish held hostage by this cold, grasping woman. He deserved his rest. He deserved to be free of her, completely and finally. The fight for the money, for the house, for justice—that could come later. But his dignity couldn't wait.

A cold, hard clarity settled over Elara. This was not surrender. This was strategy. A tactical retreat to win the more important battle.

She walked forward, took the bank form from her mother’s hand, and laid both papers on the polished surface of the dining room table. She picked up a pen.

“Fine,” Elara said, her voice devoid of all emotion.

She signed her name on the bank document, her signature a sharp, angry slash of ink. Then she pushed the cremation authorization toward Eleanor. Her mother, looking pleased, scrawled her own elegant signature on the line for next-of-kin.

Elara snatched the paper, folded it, and turned to leave without another word.

“I’m glad you decided to be reasonable,” Eleanor called after her. “It’s for the best.”

Elara didn’t look back. She walked out of the cold, perfect house and got into her car, the signed authorization clutched in her fist. It felt like a victory and a violation all at once. She had freed her father, but she had paid the vulture’s toll.

She drove a few blocks away and pulled over to the side of the road, her hands shaking not with grief, but with a white-hot, focused rage. The tears wouldn’t come. Instead, a chilling resolve hardened within her. Her mother thought she had won, that she had tidied up the messy business of her husband’s life.

She thought wrong.

Elara took a deep, steadying breath, pulled out her phone, and scrolled through her contacts. Her finger hovered for a moment, then pressed down decisively. The phone rang twice before a calm, familiar voice answered.

“Ben Carter.”

“Ben,” Elara said, and her own voice was as cold and sharp as splintered ice. “It’s Elara. I need your help. It’s time to go on the offensive.”

Characters

Ben Carter

Ben Carter

Elara Vance

Elara Vance

Eleanor Vance

Eleanor Vance

Richard Vance

Richard Vance