Chapter 4 - The Family Dinner
My mother invited me to dinner that evening.
The message said:
We need to stop hurting each other.
Reyes told me not to go alone.
He placed a recording device inside my coat.
A detective waited in an unmarked car across the street.
My parents’ house looked exactly as it had during my childhood.
White siding.
Perfect shrubs.
A brass welcome sign my mother polished every Saturday.
Inside, she served roast chicken as though my home had not burned down.
My father, Richard, sat at the end of the table.
Miles poured wine.
No one asked where I had slept.
My mother, Diane, folded her napkin.
“You frightened Mrs. Alvarez with your accusations.”
“I did not accuse you.”
“Then why did the fire investigator call me?”
“Because your key was found inside my apartment.”
Miles leaned back.
“Anyone could have copied that tag.”
“It had your mother’s handwriting.”
He smiled.
“You sound paranoid.”
That word had followed me through the entire inheritance dispute.
Paranoid.
Ungrateful.
Dramatic.
My father finally spoke.
“Your grandmother was sick.”
“She made promises she did not understand.”
“She recorded herself saying you stole from her properties.”
The color left his face.
My mother’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
Miles looked toward her.
I continued.
“She also said the farmhouse was never sold.”
Diane recovered first.
“Old people imagine things.”
“Helen Park has the trust records.”
My father pushed his chair back.
“Claire, let this go.”
“Why?”
“Because land is not worth losing your family.”
I looked around the table.
“My apartment burned.”
“I nearly came home during the fire.”
Miles’s expression changed for only a second.
Then he said:
May you like
“You were supposed to be at Helen’s office until seven.”
No one had told him what time I left.
