Chapter 29 - The Fall of the Prodigal
It was midnight when I returned to the smoldering carcass of the family estate in the suburbs—not my home, but Arthur and Eleanor’s sprawling, grotesque mansion that had served as the theater for my childhood misery.
The property was dark, seized by the government, yellow police tape fluttering like ragged streamers from the ornamental iron gates. But inside, I knew someone was waiting.
I pushed open the heavy front door, which hung loosely on a broken deadbolt. The grand foyer, with its sweeping twin staircases and Italian marble floors, was freezing, the heat long turned off. Empty bottles of expensive wine lay shattered across the floor. Furniture had been overturned, walls punched through, portraits slashed with kitchen knives.
Sitting at the top of the grand staircase, illuminated only by the headlights of my SUV cutting through the high arched windows, was Chloe.
She had my old high school yearbooks scattered around her bare feet. In her right hand, she held a half-empty bottle of bourbon; in her left, a pair of dressmaker's shears.
"You won," Chloe called down, her voice echoing hollowly in the vast, empty tomb of our childhood. "You put Dad in prison. You put Mom in an asylum. You ruined Julian. Are you happy now, Claire? Is your little revenge complete?"
I stood at the base of the stairs, looking up at the sister who had stepped on my neck every day of her life just to make herself feel taller.
"This wasn't revenge, Chloe," I said quietly, the cold air burning my throat. "This was survival. You spent your whole life helping them bury me, and now that the dirt is falling back into the hole, you're surprised you’re at the bottom with them."
Chloe sobbed, a pathetic, ragged sound that bounced off the marble walls. "They loved me! They gave me everything! Why did it all disappear in a week?"
"Because it wasn't built on love," I said, taking the first step up the staircase. "It was built on theft, lies, and cruelty. Arthur bought you with stolen money, and Eleanor spoiled you because she couldn't stand the sight of me. We were both props in their sick little war, Chloe. The only difference is, I knew the set was made of cardboard."
Chloe looked down at the shears in her hand, her body trembling with a mixture of terror and exhaustion. She let the shears slip from her fingers; they clattered down the marble steps with a sharp, ringing chime, coming to rest at my feet.
"What am I supposed to do?" she wept, curling into a fetal position on the top step, burying her face in her knees. "I have no money. I have no friends. I don't even know who I am."
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I picked up the heavy shears, walked up the remaining stairs, and tossed a small black key onto the step next to her.
"The lake house has food, firewood, and a roof," I said, looking down at her without pity, but without hatred either. "You can stay there until the bank auctions it in six months. Get clean, Chloe. Learn how to work. Or don't. But this is the last time you will ever see my face."
