Chapter 2 - The Sound of Footsteps
The word hung in the air between us, heavy and metallic, like the taste of blood still lingering in the back of my mouth.
*“Finally.”*
I gripped the phone so tightly my knuckles went bloodless. Through the apartment window, the afternoon light over Richmond was gray and bruised, matching the discoloration blooming across the left side of my face. Beneath the sterile white butterfly bandages and the twenty-four stitches holding my cheek and temple together, my skin throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache. But that ache was nothing compared to the ice flooding my chest.
“What does that mean, Vanessa?” I whispered.
On the other end of the line, I heard the faint clinking of ice against crystal. She was pouring herself a drink. It was two o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon.
“You’ve spent your entire life walking around with your head in the clouds, Claire,” Vanessa said, her voice smooth, completely devoid of the manic shrillness she’d possessed at the reception hall four days ago. “Playing the sweet, fragile, perfect little angel. And I was wondering how long it would take for you to look in a mirror and actually ask what you’re made of.”
“I have a titanium plate in my skull,” I said, my voice shaking despite my desperate attempt to steady it. “Four screws in my orbital floor. You pushed me through a glass door when I was six years old, didn’t you?”
A soft, breathy laugh drifted through the receiver. It made the hairs on my arms stand up. It was the exact laugh she had let out while I lay on the floor of the reception hall, covered in gore and bridal tulle, surrounded by shattered double-pane glass.
“Mom and Dad told you it was a bicycle accident,” she purred. “And you were so stupid you believed them. You believed them for twenty-two years.”
“Why?” The word tore out of me, raw and desperate. “Why did you do it then? Why did you do it on Saturday?”
“Oh, honey,” Vanessa murmured, her tone dipping into that mocking, condescending southern drawl she used whenever she wanted to eviscerate someone in public. “If you haven’t figured that out yet, you haven’t looked at the paperwork in Dad’s desk. But don't worry. You will.”
The line went dead with a hollow *click*.
I pulled the phone away from my ear, staring at the darkened screen. My hands were trembling violently. The apartment was deafeningly quiet. Daniel had gone out an hour ago to run errands—or so he said. Lately, every time he looked at my face, I saw something flick across his eyes that made my stomach twist. It wasn't just grief or fury; it was guilt.
A sharp knock at the front door shattered the silence.
I jumped, nearly dropping the phone onto the hardwood floor.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
Firm. Insistent. Familiar.
I walked down the narrow hallway of our townhome, pausing by the peephole. Standing on the exterior landing, wrapped in an expensive beige cashmere coat with her hair blown back by the October wind, was my mother. Eleanor Montgomery.
She didn't look like a mother visiting her severely injured daughter. She looked like a defense attorney arriving for a high-stakes settlement negotiation. Her posture was rigid, her jaw set, her designer purse tucked securely under her arm.
I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open, leaving the brass security chain attached.
Eleanor blinked at the chain, her eyes narrowing slightly in irritation before shifting down to the gauze plastered across my face. A microscopic twitch disturbed the corner of her perfectly lipsticked mouth.
“Claire,” she said, her voice low and composed. “Unlatch the door. Let me in.”
“Daniel isn't here,” I said coldly.
“Good. I didn't come to talk to your husband. I came to talk to you. Alone.”
“You shouldn't be here, Mom. Daniel called the police yesterday. Detective Vasquez from Richmond PD is already reviewing the security footage from the venue. You know that.”
Eleanor let out a sharp sigh through her nose, shaking her head as if I were a child refusing to eat my vegetables. “That detective isn't going to do anything, Claire, because families do not put each other in prison. Now unlatch this door before the neighbors see me standing in the hall like a peddler.”
For a second, the instinct to obey—the twenty-eight years of ingrained conditioning that dictated Eleanor Montgomery’s word was law—almost made my hand reach for the chain. But then the metal beneath my cheekbone pulsed. Four screws. A childhood stolen by a lie.
“Explain the hospital records from 2002,” I said.
Eleanor froze. The subtle social irritation vanished from her eyes, replaced instantly by something ancient, cold, and predatory.
“Where did you get those?” she asked, her voice dropping an octave.
“Dr. Parker saw the plate on the CT scan. My lawyer requisitioned the archived microfiche from St. Jude’s Memorial this morning. It’s all there, Mom. *'Mechanism of injury disputed. Mother states older sister was present.'*” I leaned closer to the gap in the door, staring straight into her pale blue eyes. “You told me I hit the curb on my bike. You let me grow up thinking I was clumsy. You covered for her when she was ten, and you tried to cover for her four days ago.”
Eleanor didn't flinch. She didn't look remorseful. Instead, she stepped closer to the opening, her breath smelling of peppermint and expensive roast coffee.
“You don't know the whole story, Claire,” she whispered. “You never have. If you let that detective file charges against Vanessa, you aren't just sending your sister to jail. You will destroy your father's practice. You will bankrupt this family. And you will find out things about yourself that you are not strong enough to survive.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I am trying to save you from your own stupidity,” she snapped. “Your sister is sick. She has always been sick. Do you think your father and I protected her because we loved her more? We protected her because we had no choice. And neither do you.”
Before I could answer, the elevator at the end of the hall chimed.
Eleanor turned her head quickly. Footsteps echoed against the polished concrete floor. Daniel appeared around the corner, carrying a brown paper grocery bag.
When his eyes landed on my mother standing outside our door, his entire posture changed. His shoulders locked, his jaw hardened, and the grocery bag rustled as his grip tightened.
“Eleanor,” Daniel said, his voice flat and menacing. “Get away from my wife.”
Eleanor didn't move immediately. She turned back to me, her eyes drilling into mine with terrifying intensity.
“Check the safe in your father’s library, Claire,” she murmured, too low for Daniel to hear. “Look for the green ledger from 1998. Then decide if you really want to put us on the witness stand.”
She turned on her heel and walked toward the stairwell, completely ignoring Daniel as she brushed past him. Daniel watched her go, his eyes dark with rage, before hurrying to the door.
“Claire,” he said, reaching through the opening as I unlatched the chain. “Did she touch you? What did she say?”
I looked at my husband—the man who had sworn to protect me less than an hour before my sister drove me through eight feet of tempered glass.
“She told me to look in my father’s safe,” I whispered.
May you like
Daniel’s expression shifted. Just for a fraction of a second, the color drained from his face, and his eyes darted away from mine toward the darkened floor of our apartment.
***
