Chapter 3 - The Sudden Blackout
Monday morning arrived with the brisk, sharp bite of late November.
At Simone’s townhouse, the morning sun poured through the kitchen blinds, illuminating a mug of freshly brewed coffee that I actually had the time to sit and drink. For the first time in four years, I didn't wake up at 6:00 AM worrying about whether Dad had taken his pills or whether the refrigerator was stocked enough to prevent Brent from having a tantrum.
At 7:55 AM, I logged into my utility accounts from my phone. At 8:00 AM sharp, the status indicators flicked from *Active* to *Disconnected by Customer Request*.
A quiet shiver of satisfaction rippled down my spine.
"They're going to lose their minds," Simone said, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast in front of me. She leaned against the counter, her eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "You know Brent's entire identity revolves around that sixty-five-inch OLED television in the den, right?"
"Brent’s thirty-five years old," I said, spreading strawberry jam onto my toast. "He has an able pair of hands, an F-150 truck, and a baby on the way. He can go apply for an account with the electric company like every other adult in America."
"And what about Arthur and Eleanor?"
I paused, holding the silver butter knife in mid-air. The image of my father came to mind—his graying hair, his slightly hunched posture, the way he would lean against the doorframe whenever he wanted to ask for another three hundred dollars for "physical therapy."
"They lied to me every single day for over a thousand days, Simone," I said, my voice hardening. "They stole my twenties. They stole my savings. I don't care if they have to sit in the dark with flashlights."
I spent the rest of the workday at my office downtown. I’m a senior project coordinator for a regional architectural design firm. My job requires laser precision—balancing budgets, tracking contractor invoices, and ensuring nobody bills for materials they didn't deliver. The bitter irony wasn't lost on me: I spent eight hours a day catching multi-thousand-dollar discrepancies for corporate clients, while at home, I had allowed my own parents to run a basic confidence scam on me for years.
Around 2:30 PM, my desk phone rang. It was an internal extension from the receptionist downstairs.
"Cassidy? There's a man and an older woman in the lobby asking to see you. The man says he’s your brother, and... honestly, he’s causing a bit of a scene with the security guard."
My stomach tightened, but my heart didn't race. The dread I used to feel had been replaced by a quiet, immovable armor.
"Thanks, Becky. Call building security and have them escorted off the property immediately. Do not validate their parking, and do not let them up the elevators."
"Understood."
Ten minutes later, my personal cell phone—which I had kept unblocked for unknown numbers in case Wren needed me—erupted with an incoming call from a number I didn't recognize.
I let it go to voicemail.
A red notification popped up immediately. I pressed play and held the speaker to my ear.
*"Cassidy! You spiteful, vindictive little b—!"* Brent’s voice was screeching so loudly the audio distorted. Background sounds of city traffic and car horns bled through the recording. *"You had the power cut off! It’s forty degrees outside! Chloe is pregnant, you psycho! Her prenatal vitamins need to be refrigerated, and Mom can't even turn on the stove to make dinner! You turn the electric back on right now, or so help me God, I will find out where Simone works and come drag you out of your stupid little cubicle!"*
A second voicemail clicked in directly behind it. This one was from Dad.
His voice didn't possess Brent’s feral rage. Instead, it was dripping with that patented, wounded patriarch tone he had weaponized since I was a teenager.
*"Cassidy. This is your father. I don't know what kind of juvenile tantrum you think you’re throwing, but you have crossed an unforgivable line. Your mother is in tears. She had to throw out two hundred dollars worth of groceries from the freezer. Whatever nonsense Wren filled your head with about our financial affairs, you clearly do not understand the complexities of our estate. You have embarrassed this family by sending security guards after your brother at your office. Call me back immediately and restore the municipal services, or consider yourself completely disowned from this family."*
*Consider yourself disowned.*
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my throat. Disowned from what? From an unpaid servant position? From a home where my bedroom had been handed to another woman within twelve hours of my departure?
I didn't call back.
Instead, I took a screenshot of Brent’s threatening voicemail transcript, forwarded it to Simone’s email for safekeeping, and dialed Wren’s cell.
She answered on the first ring, her voice muffled as if she were hiding in a closet. "Cassidy?"
"Wren, where are you?"
"I’m at the public library near the high school," she whispered quickly. "I walked here straight from seventh period. Cassidy, it’s total chaos at the house. Brent smashed a kitchen stool against the wall when the Wi-Fi went down, and Mom was screaming at him because Chloe started crying about how she refused to live in a house without heat."
"Did Dad try to pay the electric company?"
"He tried!" Wren let out a nervous, breathless giggle. "He called them from his cell phone. But the utility company told him that because the service had been terminated under your name, he has to establish a brand-new account in his or Brent's name, which requires an in-person identity verification and a six-hundred-dollar deposit because of Dad’s terrible credit history! Dad threw his phone onto the couch and yelled that he wasn't going to let the city extort him."
"He has hundreds of thousands of dollars hidden somewhere, Wren," I said, leaning forward over my desk. "Did you see any bank names on that deed document? Any account numbers?"
"No," Wren replied, her tone turning serious. "The deed was in Dad's bottom drawer beneath some old tax returns from 2012. But Cassidy... there's something else. There was a metal lockbox tucked behind the file cabinet. It has a digital keypad. I tried Dad's birthday, Mom's birthday, and Brent's birthday, but none of them worked."
"Don't touch it again," I instructed firmly. "I don't want them suspecting you. How much longer until you turn eighteen?"
"Three weeks," she answered softly. "December twenty-first."
"Hold tight, Wren. Don't confront them, don't argue with Brent, and keep your head down. I’m going to get a lawyer."
"A lawyer? Cassidy, can we afford that?"
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"I have two thousand dollars sitting in my account that was supposed to go toward a fake mortgage this Friday," I said, a razor-sharp smile touching my lips. "I can afford whatever it takes to burn their house of cards to the ground."
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