Chapter 5 - The Reconstruction of Home
By 3:00 PM on Christmas Eve, the rain had finally stopped, replaced by a soft, silent snowfall that blanketed the lawns of Overland Park in pristine, gleaming white.
In the driveway of 14040 Elm Street, two federal vehicles and a local police cruiser were parked with their lights softly flashing.
Corinne stood on her stone porch, her hands tucked into the pockets of her wool coat, watching as two federal agents escorted Ross and Gwendolyn down the front steps in handcuffs.
Ross looked defeated, his head bowed, his grey sweater wrinkled and stained. As he passed Corinne, he stopped for a fraction of a second, his lips trembling.
“Corinne... please,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I... I was manipulated. Gwendolyn told me you were going to leave me anyway... she said we could start over with the money—”
“Don't speak to me, Ross,” Corinne said, her voice entirely devoid of anger, containing only the vast, cold emptiness of absolute detachment. “Save it for your federal public defender.”
Gwendolyn didn't look at Corinne. She spat on the driveway ice as the agent guided her into the back of the unmarked sedan, her face contorted in bitter, ugly rage as the door slammed shut.
The vehicles drove away into the quiet winter afternoon, their tires crunching softly against the fresh snow.
Corinne turned and walked back inside her home.
The house was still empty of her old photographs, but the air felt clean again. The heavy scent of Gwendolyn’s perfume was fading, replaced by the crisp, fresh smell of the winter pine branches Corinne had placed on the kitchen counter an hour earlier.
In the hallway, Aunt Miriam was sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, holding a mug of hot cocoa.
And at the top of the stairs stood Casey.
The four-year-old was wearing a brand-new pair of green dinosaur pajamas that Aunt Miriam had bought her. Her left wrist was covered with a soft, protective white bandage. She held the Santa-hat teddy bear under her arm, looking down at Corinne with wide, hesitant blue eyes.
“Mommy?” Casey whispered into the quiet hallway. “Is the bad lady gone?”
Corinne walked to the base of the stairs, opened her arms wide, and looked up at her daughter.
“She’s gone, baby,” Corinne said, tears shining in her eyes, though her smile was as warm and bright as the Christmas lights stringing the front porch. “She’s gone forever. Nobody is ever going to hurt you, scare you, or keep me away from you again.”
Casey didn't hesitate.
She let go of the banister, abandoned her teddy bear on the top step, and took the stairs two at a time, her bare feet pattering wildly against the oak treads before she leaped straight off the third step into Corinne’s waiting arms.
The impact knocked Corinne back against the wall, but she held on with every ounce of strength she possessed, burying her face into the soft curve of her daughter’s neck, inhaling the sweet, pure scent of baby shampoo and warm cocoa.
Casey wrapped her small arms tightly around Corinne’s neck, her little fingers digging into the fabric of her sweater, sobbing softly against her shoulder. “I missed you, Mommy... I kept your paper crown in my secret box... I didn't let her burn it...”
“I know, sweetheart,” Corinne wept, holding her child close, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her tiny wet nose. “I know. You were so brave. You saved us.”
Aunt Miriam stood up quietly, wiping her own eyes with a tissue, and walked toward the kitchen to pour another cup of cocoa, leaving mother and daughter holding each other in the center of the foyer.
Corinne carried Casey into the living room. Together, they walked over to the large canvas portrait hanging above the fireplace—the picture of Ross, Gwendolyn, and Casey in their matching sweaters.
Corinne reached up with her right hand, caught the bottom edge of the frame, and pulled down hard.
The canvas ripped away from the wall mounting with a sharp crack, crashing onto the stone hearth below. Corinne carried it to the front door, opened it, and tossed the frame out into the snowdrifts beside the driveway, letting the freezing powder swallow the lie whole.
Then she walked back inside, shut the heavy oak door, and clicked the deadbolt into place.
She carried Casey into the home office. She opened her desk drawer, pulled out a small velvet box she had bought at the Norfolk airport, and set it in Casey’s lap.
Inside was a delicate, silver locket shaped like a star.
Casey opened it with her small fingers. On the left side was a tiny picture of Corinne in her uniform, smiling brightly. On the right side was a picture of Casey wearing her paper reading crown.
“Whenever you look at this, Casey,” Corinne whispered, fastening the chain around her daughter’s neck, “you remember that no matter where I am, no matter what anyone says, nothing in this world can ever separate us.”
Casey touched the silver star, then pressed her forehead against Corinne’s cheek.
“Can we make cookies now, Mommy?” she asked, her voice light, innocent, and completely free of fear for the first time in eight months. “The tree needs stars.”
May you like
Corinne smiled, wiping a final tear from her eye as she lifted her daughter into her arms.
“Yes, baby,” Corinne said, walking back toward the warm, lit kitchen. “We’re going to make a million stars.”
