Chapter 8 - The Return to the Tomb
The black airport limousine pulled up to the front portico at 11:30 AM on a blistering Tuesday.
From the concealed camera feed running on my tablet, I watched them step out.
Sheila looked radiant. She was wearing an ivory linen suit, oversized Chanel sunglasses, and carrying three shopping bags from Hermès. Tony was behind her, laughing heartily, sporting a deep Mediterranean tan and an expensive straw Panama hat. Jordan strode behind them, carrying a bespoke leather garment bag containing his graduation gown, looking bored and entitled, glued to his smartphone.
"God, the humidity in this swamp is repulsive," Sheila complained, handing her luggage to the chauffeur. "Tony, remember: let me do the talking. We go directly to the kitchen, we call 911, and we act hysterical. You tell the sheriff we hadn't heard from Rosie in two weeks and came straight from the airport because we were worried."
"I know the script, Sheila," Tony muttered, smoothing his linen lapels. "Just make sure the crying looks real. The insurance adjusters look at the eyes."
"Don't lecture me on performance, Tony," she snapped as she unlocked the front door. "Jordan, wait in the parlor. You don't need to see whatever is in that room."
"Whatever, Mom," Jordan said dismissively, collapsing onto the velvet sofa in the foyer. "Just make sure we can unlock my trust fund by Friday. The dealer in Miami needs the wire for the Ferrari by three o’clock."
"It’ll be handled, darling," Sheila cooed, kissing his forehead.
She turned toward the hallway. Her face transformed instantly. The bored, wealthy matriarch vanished, replaced by an expression of cold, predatory determination.
Beside her, Tony pulled a small handkerchief from his pocket, preparing to dab his dry eyes.
They walked down the polished parquet corridor toward the laundry area.
Every step echoed through the silent house.
I stood directly behind the solid oak door. Not crawling. Not begging. Standing tall, my shoulders squared, wearing an impeccably tailored black silk dress that Julian had brought me the night before.
Outside, I heard the heavy brass key slip into the deadbolt.
*Click.*
The bolt slid back with a loud, mechanical snap.
Sheila took a deep breath, visibly steeling herself to see the gruesome sight of her daughter’s emaciated body.
May you like
She grabbed the polished brass handle and yanked the door open.
***
