Chapter 2 - The Demands of the Unashamed
The pounding was not a polite knock; it was the rhythmic, demanding thud of someone who believed they owned the property.
I didn't rush. I stood up from Samuel’s desk, picked up the heavy black folder, and walked down the dimly lit hallway toward the entryway.
Through the glass side panels of the front door, I saw them.
My mother, Evelyn, was wearing an expensive white linen trousers suit, her skin glowing with a fresh, golden sunburn from the tropical sun. Beside her stood my father, Richard, his hands shoved into the pockets of his designer shorts, checking his gold wristwatch with a look of extreme annoyance. Parked in my driveway, blocking my garage entirely, was a brand-new silver luxury SUV. Leaning casually against its hood was my brother, Marcus, scrolling through his phone with a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips.
I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
My mother didn't wait for an invitation. She pushed past me into the foyer, her high heels clicking loudly against the hardwood floor. She took off her designer sunglasses and looked me up and down with an expression of intense distaste.
"Finally," Evelyn said, wiping a speck of dust from her linen sleeve. "We’ve been ringing the gate bell for ten minutes. You look terrible, Jane. You need to pull yourself together; sitting in the dark weeping isn't going to fix anything."
My father stepped inside behind her, letting the heavy oak door slam shut. He didn't look at me. His eyes scanned the high ceilings, the crown molding, and the artwork hanging on the walls as if he were an insurance adjuster evaluating an estate.
"Where’s Samuel’s desk key?" Richard asked immediately, stepping directly into my personal space. "We need to go over his financial portfolio before the probate court freezes the primary accounts."
I stood completely still, my arm resting against the black folder held tight against my ribs.
"The funeral ended three hours ago, Dad," I said. My voice was stripped of all emotion—flat, steady, and devoid of the familiar trembling that used to accompany my conversations with them.
"We know when the funeral was, Jane," Evelyn snapped, crossing her arms over her chest, visibly offended by my tone. "We told you in the text—flights from the Caribbean during peak season are three thousand dollars a seat! It was entirely impractical for us to fly back for a two-hour service just to stand in the rain. Samuel is dead. Penelope is dead. Standing in a cemetery won't bring them back."
"Too trivial," I whispered, repeating the words from her text message.
"Don't start acting fragile and dramatic with us now, Jane!" Evelyn’s voice dropped into that sharp, scolding register she had used on me since I was seven years old. "We came straight here from the airport without even dropping our luggage off at home! We are trying to help you manage this situation before you make an emotional mess of things."
The front door opened again, and Marcus stepped into the house, bringing the reek of stale tobacco with him. He didn't take off his shoes. He walked across my clean rug, leaving dark grease smudges on the wool fibers.
"Look, Jane," Marcus said casually, tossing his car keys up and catching them in his palm. "We don't need to turn this into a whole scene. Samuel had a two-million-dollar umbrella life insurance policy through his firm. Plus, the trucking company’s insurance settled the vehicular liability claim instantly to avoid a jury trial. You’re sitting on at least three million dollars right now."
I looked at my brother—the boy my parents had shielded from every consequence, the man who had never held a job for longer than six months because my father always paid off his credit cards and bought him new cars whenever he wrecked them.
"And?" I asked slowly.
Marcus smirked, stepping closer to my parents. "Forty grand. That’s all we need right now. A small bridge loan."
"Forty thousand dollars," I repeated, my voice steady.
"Yes, forty grand!" Evelyn barked, taking a step toward me, her eyes widening with genuine indignation that I hadn't already pulled out a checkbook. "Marcus found an incredible investment opportunity in commercial real estate down in Miami, but the earnest deposit is due by noon tomorrow! We spent thirty thousand dollars on our vacation package because we thought Marcus’s business loan was going through this week! After everything we’ve done for you—raising you, putting up with your attitude, supporting you when you insisted on marrying an accountant—you owe us this!"
You owe us.
The words hung in the air of my quiet entryway, heavy, grotesque, and absurd.
They stood there in their expensive clothes, smelling of high-end sunblock, coconut oil, and total moral corruption. They looked at me—a woman whose husband and baby were laying under six feet of fresh wet mud—and saw nothing more than an open bank account to fund their next luxury endeavor.
"After everything you've done for me," I said softly.
"Exactly!" Evelyn said, her face relaxing slightly, assuming her classic guilt-tripping tactic had worked as it always had. "We are your family, Jane. Family supports each other in times of transition. Now open Samuel’s safe and give us the cashier's check authorization forms."
I looked down at the black binder in my hands.
For the first time in three days—for the first time since the state trooper had knocked on my door to deliver the news that had ended my life—a cold, slow smile spread across my face.
It wasn't a smile of joy. It was the smile of an executioner laying out the rope.
"What’s so funny?" Richard demanded, his brow furrowing as he noticed my expression.
"Nothing, Dad," I said, stepping past them toward the dining room table. "I just think it's remarkable how predictable you all are."
May you like
I laid the black binder flat on the polished table, unzipped the side enclosure, and flipped it open to Tab 1.
"Come here," I said quietly. "All three of you. Come look at what Samuel left for you."
