Chapter 2 - The Knock on the Door
Exactly seventy-two hours after the cemetery earth was smoothed over, a loud, impatient pounding rattled the front door of my suburban home in Oak Park.
I was sitting at the dark dining table. Gemma’s pink school backpack still hung over the banister, her half-finished coloring book open beside a vase of wilted white lilies.
I stood up, smoothed down my black sweater, and opened the door.
Standing on my front porch were Eleanor, Richard, and Jared.
They looked bronzed from the Caribbean sun, smelling strongly of coconut tanning oil, duty-free designer perfume, and airport champagne. Jared was tapping away on his luxury smartphone, barely glancing up, while my father adjusted his gold watch.
My mother didn't offer a hug. She didn't look at my swollen, tear-stained eyes. She didn't even step across the threshold with sympathy.
She simply peered past my shoulder into the foyer with an impatient scowl.
"You look absolutely dreadful, Naomi," Eleanor said flatly, pulling off her sunglasses. "Anyway, we don't have all afternoon. We just got in from O'Hare, and we need forty thousand dollars in certified cashier's checks immediately."
The silence in the entryway was absolute.
"For what?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm.
Jared finally looked up from his phone, rolling his eyes with theatrical irritation. "It's an emergency, Naomi. Don't start being dramatic and turning this into a whole scene. The commercial kitchen suppliers for my new downtown bistro froze our line of credit because of an overdue state sales tax lien. If we don't clear forty grand by four o'clock today, the city inspector pulls my opening license."
My father stepped forward, his tone authoritative and sharp, as if addressing a subordinate on a job site.
"Your brother has worked day and night to build this culinary brand, Naomi. Johnny left behind substantial corporate life insurance and equity. Family takes care of family."
I looked at my mother's sun-kissed face, then at my father's designer polo shirt, and finally at Jared's indifferent smirk.
"You skipped Johnny and Gemma’s funeral," I said quietly.
Eleanor's expression instantly hardened into venomous indignity. She took a sharp step forward, her finger jabbing the air inches from my face.
"Don't you dare throw that in our faces! We booked that resort three months in advance! Johnny was always distant with us anyway, and Gemma... well, dwelling on tragedy won't bring anyone back! After everything we sacrificed to raise you, after putting up with your cold attitude for years, you owe us! Now write the check!"
I looked at all three of them.
For the first time in my thirty-two years of life, there was no fear in my heart. No desperate plea for approval.
Only a profound, glacial stillness.
"Wait here," I said softly.
May you like
I turned, walked to the console table in the hallway, and picked up a heavy, sealed black leather binder that Arthur Sterling had personally delivered to my kitchen counter forty minutes earlier.
I walked back to the doorway, unclasped the brass lock, and opened the first page.
