Chapter 5
Z
The wrought-iron gates of my childhood home swung open slowly, casting long, menacing shadows across the cobblestone driveway under the pale moonlight. The grand colonial house stood imposing against the night sky, its windows glowing with warm, welcoming lights that felt entirely fake.
I sat in the passenger seat of Ethan’s car, my fingers digging into the leather armrest.
"I don't like this, Nat," Ethan said, turning off the engine. "Marcus is set up down the street with the audio receiver, but if things go wrong, I'm coming through that front door. I don't care about trespassing."
"I have a hidden wire under my collar," I pointed to the small, button-sized microphone pinned to the inside of my jacket. "And I have the emergency tracker on my phone. If I'm not out in thirty minutes, call the police."
I reached into my bag and pulled out a small, metallic tool—a tubular key decoder that Marcus had given me, along with the master combination override code for the heavy Honeywell safe in my father's study. Years ago, when I was a teenager, I had watched my father enter the combination a hundred times. I still remembered the numbers: 14-32-08.
"Be careful," Ethan murmured, pulling me into a fierce, protective kiss. "Don't let her provoke you."
"I won't," I whispered. "It's my turn to provoke her."
I stepped out of the car, the cool evening air whipping my hair across my face. My heart pounded like a war drum in my chest as my heels clacked against the brick walkway. I didn't knock. I simply turned the brass doorknob and walked into the grand foyer.
The house was eerie, quiet, smelling faintly of lavender and expensive polish—Diane's signature scent.
"Natalie."
My father stood at the top of the grand staircase. He looked haggard, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes, his tailored suit hanging loosely on his frame. He descended the stairs quickly, reaching out as if to hug me, but I took a deliberate step back. His hands fell awkwardly to his sides.
"She's in the dining room," he whispered, his voice trembling. "She... she had her lawyer draft the withdrawal forms for the police, and the non-disclosure agreement. Once you sign, she'll delete the files she sent to Georgetown."
"Where are my mother's things?" I asked sharply.
"In the study safe. Like I promised," he replied softly. "I have the key right here. We can get them as soon as the papers are signed."
I nodded, maintaining a stone-faced expression. "Let's get this over with."
We walked into the formal dining room. Diane was sitting at the head of the long mahogany table, looking like a queen presiding over her court. A crystal glass of white wine sat at her right hand, and a stack of legal documents lay neatly arranged in front of her, accompanied by a sleek Montblanc pen.
She didn't get up. She simply smiled—a cruel, triumphant smirk that made my skin crawl.
"Look who decided to be reasonable," Diane said smoothly, taking a slow sip of her wine. "I always knew you were a smart girl, Natalie. It’s just a shame you had to ruin your own graduation party and get a nasty bruise to learn your place."
I felt a surge of blinding fury, but I gripped the back of a dining chair, drawing on every ounce of self-control I had. "The papers, Diane."
She slid the documents across the polished table. "Sign on the flagged pages. You agree that the incident on Saturday was an accidental slip and fall caused by your own spatial disorientation. You agree never to speak to the press, never to post on social media about this family, and to drop all pending criminal charges immediately."
I picked up the pen, pretending to read through the heavy legal jargon.
"And my job?" I asked, looking up at her. "The letter to Bright Horizons?"
Diane laughed, a light, melodic sound that chilled me to the bone. "Oh, darling. I'll send a follow-up email retracting the claims, saying it was a case of mistaken identity. But let’s be honest... do you really think you have a future in D.C. after this? You're damaged goods, Natalie. You always have been."
"Why do you hate me so much, Diane?" I asked quietly, letting the wire capture every word. "What did I ever do to you besides exist in my mother's house?"
Diane’s smile vanished, replaced by an ugly, venomous glare. "You represent everything your father was before I saved him. You represent his pathetic, soft past with a woman who died and left him broken. I built this man! I made him a viable candidate! And every time he looks at you, he remembers his old, pathetic life. You are a stain on this family's future, Natalie."
My father stood in the corner, his eyes fixed on the floor, saying absolutely nothing to defend his dead wife or his living daughter. He was completely neutered, a puppet stringed up by his own cowardice.
"I need a moment to sign these," I said, holding my breath. "And I want my mother's things first. Dad, give me the key to the safe."
My father hesitated, looking at Diane for approval. She waved her hand dismissively. "Go give her the trash. Let her take her dead mother's trinkets and get out of my sight."
My father led me down the dark hallway to his private study. He unlocked the heavy oak door and walked over to the built-in bookshelf, sliding away a row of leather-bound encyclopedias to reveal the heavy iron safe.
He inserted the key, turned the dial—14-32-08—and the heavy door clicked open.
Inside, sitting on the top shelf, was my mother’s velvet jewelry box and her leather-bound diary. But on the bottom shelf sat three thick, black ledger binders labeled 2011-2012 Audit Reports - confidential.
My heart hammered in my ribcage.
"Dad," I said suddenly, turning to him with an expression of sudden panic. "I think... I think I left my purse in the dining room with my ID. I need it to sign the notary section. Can you get it for me?"
He frowned. "Can't you get it after?"
"Please, Dad. My head is throbbing from the concussion. I just want to do this and leave."
May you like
He looked at me, a brief flicker of guilt crossing his face, and sighed. "Fine. Wait here."
The second his footsteps faded down the hallway, I moved like lightning.
