Chapter 4 - The House of Glass
The hallway was dimly lit, the late afternoon sun casting long, skeletal shadows across the wallpaper my mother had chosen fifteen years ago.
Diane was standing with her arms folded across her chest, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Behind her, sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, Brooke was wiping nonexistent tears from her cheeks, clutching her new $1,800 leather handbag in her lap like an emotional support animal.
The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind me, Diane lunged forward.
"Finally!" she snapped, reaching out to grab my arm. "Did you throw her out? Did you tell her to pack her filthy things? Nolan, we have to call the bank immediately. Brooke looked into the mortgage, and if we take out an equity line before the end of the month, we can pay off those collectors before they come back and burn this house down!"
I didn't let her touch me.
I took one half-step back, shifting my weight, and let my eyes drop onto Diane’s hands.
My mother froze.
"Where are your glasses, Mother?" I asked.
She blinked, taken aback by the question. "What? What does that have to do with anything? I left them in the living room!"
"You can't see past three feet without them," I said, my tone as flat as an uncoiled steel wire. "You have severe astigmatism. Yet you claim that three hours ago, four dangerous men in a black truck broke into this house, assaulted your daughter-in-law, and ransacked the kitchen."
"I... I had them on earlier!" Diane stammered, her chin lifting defiantly. "They were knocked off during the commotion!"
"Is that so?" I stepped past her, walking into the kitchen.
The broken ceramic pitcher lay in the center of the linoleum. Two glasses were shattered near the counter.
I crouched down beside the dining table. I picked up a shard of the broken glass. It was thick, heavy crystal—part of the set my mother had inherited from her grandmother.
"A violent home invasion," I said aloud, turning the glass in my tactical gloves. "Four hardened debt collectors come to enforce a seventy-thousand-dollar street loan. They drag Eliza to the floor. They violently assault her."
I stood up, turning to face Diane and Brooke, who had followed me into the kitchen doorway.
"Why is there no blood on this floor?" I asked.
Brooke shifted uncomfortably on her feet. "She... she was bleeding outside! On the gravel!"
"I checked the driveway when I parked my truck," I replied instantly. "There is no blood on the gravel. There are no tire tracks from a heavy truck. The only tire tracks in the mud are from your brand-new Audi sedan, Brooke. And there is no glass on the porch. The only broken glass in this entire four-thousand-square-foot house is right here. Two tumblers. One cheap pitcher."
"Nolan, you are being ridiculous!" Diane raised her voice, stepping into the kitchen with her chest puffed out, trying to summon the matriarchal dominance she had used on me since childhood. "We were terrorized! You walk in here after being gone for six weeks and instead of defending your mother and sister, you're interrogating us like suspects? How dare you! What did that lying tramp tell you in that bedroom?"
"She told me about Evan Pierce," I said.
Brooke let out a sharp, theatrical gasp. "See! I told you! She admitted it! She admitted she’s sleeping with that sleazy contractor!"
"Evan Pierce isn't a contractor, Brooke," I said, locking my eyes directly onto my sister's face.
Brooke's smug expression wavered. The corner of her left eye twitched.
"He’s a forensic investigator for the state fraud division," I said.
The temperature in the kitchen plummeted to zero.
Brooke’s mouth fell slightly open. The color began to drain from her cheeks, leaving her heavy foundation looking powdery and chalky against her skin.
"And," I continued, taking two slow, deliberate steps toward her, "he has the digital IP addresses for three loan applications submitted from this house. Specifically, from the IP address assigned to the laptop sitting on your vanity upstairs."
"That's a lie!" Brooke shrieked, her voice suddenly climbing an octave into shrill panic. "She made that up! She hacked my computer! Mom, tell him! She’s trying to frame me because she’s jealous of my business!"
"Nolan, stop this!" Diane yelled, grabbing my bicep with fingers like bird talons. "You listen to your sister! Eliza is sick! She has always been jealous of Brooke! She took those loans out to help her own deadbeat family, and now she’s trying to drag us down with her!"
I looked down at the hand clutching my arm.
"Take your hand off me," I said.
My voice wasn't loud. It wasn't angry. It was the tone an officer uses when giving an order that will result in execution if disobeyed.
Diane pulled her hand back as if she had touched a red-hot stove.
"Hand me your purse, Brooke," I said.
Brooke clutched the designer bag against her ribs like a drowning woman holding a life vest. "No! That's private! You don't have the right to look through my personal things!"
"Hand me the purse, Brooke," I repeated. "Or I will take it from you, and I promise you will not like how I do it."
"Mom!" Brooke cried, stepping behind our mother. "Don't let him! He’s crazy! The Army made him crazy!"
"Nolan, you touch her and I’m calling the police!" Diane threatened, reaching into her apron pocket for her phone.
"Call them," I said, taking out my own military-issued smartphone and laying it flat on the dining table. "In fact, let me dial the dispatcher for you. We can have the El Paso County Sheriff here in twelve minutes. We can invite them into the kitchen. We can show them the broken glass, we can show them the IP logs, and then we can have them search the house for the weapon used to shave Eliza’s head."
Both women froze.
Neither of them reached for the phone.
In the heavy, suffocating silence of the kitchen, Brooke’s breathing became rapid and shallow. Her eyes flicked toward the hallway bathroom.
Just a quarter-second glance. But sixteen years of reading human body language in war zones made that quarter-second glance as loud as a flare in the night sky.
I turned on my heel and walked directly toward the hallway bathroom.
"Nolan, don't you dare!" Diane screamed, running after me.
I pushed open the bathroom door.
The room smelled of expensive lavender spray—overapplied, as if trying to mask something else. The trash can beside the porcelain sink was empty. The counter was wiped spotless.
I didn't look at the sink.
I looked at the wicker laundry hamper in the corner.
I pulled off the lid. On top was a pile of Brooke’s silk pajamas. Beneath them, shoved deep into the corner of the hamper inside a clear plastic ziplock bag, was my cordless Wahl tactical beard trimmer.
I reached in and pulled it out.
The transparent plastic bag didn't hide the contents.
Clumped inside the stainless-steel teeth of the clippers, trapped in the motorized housing, were thick, unmistakable strands of chestnut-brown hair.
And pressed against the white plastic casing of the clippers was a clear, reddish smudge of fresh makeup—the exact shade of bronzer currently sitting on Brooke’s cheekbones.
I held the bag up in the harsh halogen light of the bathroom mirror.
Behind me, Diane stopped dead in the doorway.
May you like
Brooke stood behind her, both hands pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide with the realization that the trap she had built for my wife had just snapped shut around her own neck.
***
