Chapter 8 - The House Tour
By five in the afternoon on December 30th, the Oakridge estate was glowing with warm, festive light.
Cars were parked all along the circular gravel driveway—Brenda’s SUV, Cynthia’s rented white Mercedes convertible, and several luxury sedans belonging to Cynthia’s social circle.
Inside, jazz music drifted through the high ceilings. Cynthia had taken full command. Fresh floral arrangements of white lilies and silver eucalyptus—bought on credit—sat on the antique sideboard where my grandmother’s silver used to be.
Mark stood by the marble fireplace, holding a crystal tumbler of scotch, wearing the bespoke wool blazer I had bought him for his birthday two years ago.
"To new beginnings," Cynthia said, raising her champagne flute toward Mark and the room of eight gathered guests. "To leaving behind the dead weight that holds us back from true potential."
"Hear, hear," Brenda chimed in, laughing as she sipped her wine. "Honestly, Mark, the house already feels so much lighter without the constant passive-aggressive sighing."
"It’s about vision," Mark said, swelling with self-importance. He gestured toward the wide hallway leading to the west wing. "Cynthia and I were walking the property this morning. That sunroom off the kitchen? It’s wasted space as an art studio. We’re going to knock out the northern wall and extend the dining room into an open-concept entertaining hall."
"And what about Claire’s studio equipment?" one of Cynthia’s real estate acquaintances asked innocently.
Mark waved a dismissive hand. "We’ll put it in storage. Or donate it. She hasn't painted a canvas in months anyway. She’s too busy complaining about her joints."
Jenna giggled from the sofa, lounging in an expensive cashmere sweater. "I told Dad we should turn the upstairs library into a nursery for when I decide to have kids. Claire had all those dusty old history books in there. I already boxed half of them up and put them out by the garage."
"You did?" Mark smiled, reaching over to ruffle his daughter's hair. "Good girl. Out with the old."
Just then, the sound of heavy tires crunching over gravel echoed from the driveway.
Headlights swept across the front bay windows, casting long, stark shadows through the sheer curtains.
"Are we expecting anyone else?" Cynthia asked, glancing at the front door.
"Probably the caterers with the seafood platter," Mark said, setting his scotch down. "I told them to come through the front. Let me go check."
Mark strode toward the heavy oak door, pulling it open with a confident, welcoming grin.
The grin died instantly on his face.
Standing on the broad stone porch were two uniformed County Sheriff deputies, their hands resting loosely near their duty belts.
May you like
Beside them, sitting straight and regal in a motorized black wheelchair, was me. My leg was encased in a massive black carbon-fiber brace, locked straight out before me.
And standing directly at my right shoulder, carrying a thick leather briefcase, was Evelyn Vance.
