Chapter 6
Aunt Sarah stopped dead in her tracks just inside the kitchen doorway, her bright floral dress contrasting sharply with the grim, oppressive atmosphere of the room. She blinked rapidly, her gaze sweeping from the spilled dark sauce on the floor, to Clara holding the leather ledger, to Martha standing rigidly by the pantry, and finally resting squarely on David, who stood calm and unblinking near the basement stairs.
The dessert tray slipped from Sarah’s fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor. A single remaining chocolate tartlet rolled out, coming to rest near the broken silver gravy boat.
"You're supposed to be dead," Sarah whispered, her face draining of color as she instinctively took a step back toward the dining room.
David offered a grim, humorless smile, sliding his hands into his tweed jacket pockets.
"Hello, Sarah," David said smoothly. "Did you enjoy the dinner party? I hope Clara remembered to tell the guests that the beef was locally sourced—though I suppose she didn't mention the source was funded by insurance fraud."
Clara felt the room spinning around her. She looked from David to her sister Sarah, noticing for the first time the way Sarah’s eyes darted nervously toward the basement door, and how Sarah’s hands were trembling behind her back.
"You knew," Clara said, her voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "Sarah... you knew he was down there the entire time."
Sarah swallowed hard, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to form words, but no sound came out. She looked at Martha as if pleading for rescue, but Martha was staring blankly at the floor, completely defeated.
"Clara, let me explain," Sarah stammered, holding her hands up defensively. "It wasn't safe for him to come up. If anyone found out he survived the crash, the insurance company would reopen the investigation, and—and we would all lose the house, the trust funds, everything!"
Rachel whimpered, backing away toward the corner of the room near the refrigerator. She didn't want the house. She just wanted the shouting to stop, wanting the sticky, cold dress off her skin.
"You lied to me every single day for three years," Clara said, her voice shaking violently as the betrayal cut deeper than any knife. "Every anniversary. Every birthday. Every time I sat at the cemetery crying over a box of rocks, you both sat across from me drinking coffee and knowing the truth."
David stepped closer to Clara, his expression softening just a fraction.
"I couldn't risk coming out, Clara," David murmured. "Your mother threatened that if I ever tried to contact you or Rachel, she would hand over the forged bank transfers with my signature directly to the federal prosecutor."
Martha let out a harsh, bitter bark of laughter.
"And I would have done it, too," Martha hissed, her eyes flashing with malice. "You were always a weak link, David. You couldn't handle the consequences of your own ambition."
Suddenly, the heavy mahogany front door of the house clicked open, followed by the sound of muffled footsteps and laughing voices echoing from the front foyer.
"Clara? Are you guys okay back there?" a male voice called out from the hallway. "The guests are wondering if you need help with dessert, or if the party is officially over."
It was Mark, Clara’s wealthy business partner and longtime family friend, who had been sitting at the head of the dining table all evening.
May you like
Sarah panicked, lunging forward to block the kitchen archway, but it was already too late. Mark stepped into the kitchen, freezing instantly as he took in the bizarre scene: the spilled sauce, the broken gravy boat, the crying child, and David standing alive and breathing in the center of it all.
***
