Chapter 4 - The Airport Motel
The Red Lion Hotel near Portland International Airport was a drab, concrete structure surrounded by car rental lots and the constant, dull roar of jet engines taking off for the East Coast. It was the kind of place people stayed when they had nowhere else to go, or when their lives had suddenly become too messy for a residential neighborhood.
We found Vanessa’s room number through a combination of Patrick’s text and a sympathetic desk clerk who had recognized Claire from the wedding photos Vanessa had apparently been showing people in the lobby while trying to prove she was "somebody."
When I knocked on the door of Room 214, the sound was sharp against the outdoor walkway.
A moment later, the chain rattled, and the door opened three inches. Vanessa looked out through the gap. The change in her appearance since Saturday was shocking. The immaculate blouse and perfectly styled hair were gone, replaced by a gray sweatshirt and a pale, haggard face that looked bloated from crying and alcohol.
When she saw me standing next to Claire, her eyes narrowed into two slits of pure venom. "What do you want? I told Patrick I’m not speaking to anyone without my lawyer."
"Patrick’s not here, Vanessa," Claire said, her voice dropping into a register that was chillingly calm. "And your lawyer doesn't have these yet." She held up the manila folder Patrick had left on our table.
Vanessa’s gaze dropped to the folder, and for a split second, a look of absolute terror flitted across her face before she masked it with her usual sneer. "I don't care what lies Patrick’s been telling you. He’s out of his mind. You two have poisoned him against me."
"Open the door, Vanessa," I said, stepping slightly forward. "Or we can discuss the two thousand dollars from Mark’s escrow account right here on the balcony where the housekeeping staff can hear us."
Vanessa gasped, her hand flying to the doorframe. She hesitated, looking up and down the empty walkway, before unlatching the chain and stepping back into the room. "Get in. Fast."
The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke—though Vanessa supposedly didn't smoke—and cheap room service coffee. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat on the dresser next to a pile of messy tissues.
"You think you’re so smart, don't you, Daniel?" Vanessa said the moment the door clicked shut. She turned on me, her fingers twitching at her sides. "You think because you played the martyr on Saturday that you’ve won? You’re a high school teacher. You’re nobody. You stole my family."
"Nobody stole anything, Vanessa," Claire said, stepping between her sister and me. She tossed the manila folder onto the unmade king-size bed. The papers spilled out, the black ledger sliding onto the white duvet like an accusation. "Patrick found it. He found the emails with Mark’s lawyer. He found the bank transfers."
Vanessa looked at the ledger, her chest rising and falling rapidly under her sweatshirt. "That was business. Mark owed me that money from the franchise fee for the restaurant we were going to open. He broke the contract."
"He broke his family!" Claire shouted, her calm exterior finally cracking, her voice vibrating with a decade of suppressed rage. "He abandoned his children, and you used his return as a debt collection strategy! You let me think he was going to take Lily and Owen away from me unless I found ten thousand dollars. You sat in my kitchen, watched me cry until I was hyperventilating, and told me that Daniel had to pay it if he wanted to be a 'real man'—all while you were getting two thousand dollars back into your pocket!"
"It was my money!" Vanessa screamed back, her face turning that ugly, dark red I remembered from the backyard. "You always got the handouts, Claire! Mom gave you the down payment for your first house because you were the one with the baby. Mom paid for your divorce lawyer because you were the one who couldn't keep a husband. What did I get? Nothing! I had to work for every single cent I have!"
"And look what you did with it," I said, my voice steady, cutting through her hysteria. "You spent it to buy a front-row seat to your sister's misery. You wanted to make sure she was always lower than you, Vanessa. Even when she found someone who loved her, you had to try and poison it by calling me 'Saint Daniel' behind my back, trying to make the kids feel like they were part of a charity project instead of a family."
Vanessa turned her glare onto me, her teeth bared. "You are a charity project. You couldn't have your own kids, so you jumped into her bed to get an instant family. You’re a fake, Daniel. A substitute teacher playing at being a father."
Snap.
The sound of Claire’s palm hitting Vanessa’s cheek wasn't as loud as the slap in the backyard—the carpeted room absorbed the echo—but the force of it sent Vanessa stumbling back against the dresser, knocking over the vodka bottle. It spilled across the dark wood, the clear liquid dripping onto the floor.
Vanessa held her face, her eyes wide with shock. "You hit me."
"That’s for my husband," Claire said, her hands steady at her sides. "And if you ever look at my children again, if you ever say their names, I won't just hit you, Vanessa. I will take this ledger to the district attorney. Our lawyer says that what you did—coordinating with an extortion attempt using joint marital funds without your husband's consent—borders on fraud and conspiracy."
Vanessa looked from Claire to me, the realization finally settling in that she had no cards left to play. Her husband was gone, her mother knew the truth, and the sister she had spent a lifetime dominating was standing over her like an executioner.
"You’re going to ruin my life," Vanessa whispered, her voice suddenly small and pathetic.
May you like
"No," I said, walking toward the door and opening it to let the cool airport air into the stifling room. "You ruined it yourself on Saturday. We’re just here to make sure you don't take anyone else down with you. Pack your things, Vanessa. Patrick’s changing the locks on the house at noon."
Claire didn't look back as we walked out onto the concrete balcony. Behind us, the sound of Vanessa’s sudden, hysterical weeping was cut off by the roar of a Boeing 737 climbing into the gray Oregon sky.
