Chapter 3 - The Frontline
Frost House sat on the corner of Oglethorpe Street, a white-painted wooden box that looked like a relic of a time when people actually cared about the houses they built. It was beautiful, yes, but it was also a tactical nightmare. It had four entrances, a basement that flooded, and a roof that leaked if you looked at it the wrong way.
I parked a block away. I didn't want the element of surprise; I wanted the element of confrontation.
I walked up the porch steps, the wood groaning under my boots—a sound I remembered from a thousand afternoons spent reading in the library. I didn't knock. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the key Grandma had given me the day she died, and turned the lock.
The house was warm. It smelled of sage and old books—a scent that brought a sharp, unexpected pang to my chest.
In the kitchen, the scene was playing out exactly as the messages had described. A man in a tailored suit—Martin Sloane, presumably—was standing by the island, holding a stack of papers. Celeste was leaning against the counter, her face flushed, holding a glass of wine like it was a shield. Brielle was off to the side, looking at her phone, her thumb moving at light speed.
My father was just sitting at the table, staring at a newspaper, as if he could disappear into the print if he tried hard enough.
They looked up as the door clicked shut behind me.
The silence was absolute.
My mother’s glass of wine actually wobbled in her hand. “Mara?” she gasped, her voice reaching for a tone of pleasant surprise that didn't exist. “What are you doing here? We thought you were… why are you here?”
I walked into the kitchen, my boots echoing on the hardwood. I didn't take off my coat. I didn't say hello. I just walked over to the island and stood directly across from the man in the suit.
“You must be Martin,” I said, my voice conversational.
He blinked, thrown off by my presence. “I… yes. And you must be the other heir. I was told you were unable to attend.”
“I’m the only heir that matters,” I said, turning to look at my mother. “Because I’m the only one who actually owns half of this property.”
Celeste regained her footing, the mask of the doting mother sliding back into place with practiced ease. “Mara, darling, you’re confused. We’ve been talking to our estate attorney, and the papers are all ready. It’s just a formality. We’re doing this for the family, so we can all move on.”
“Is that what you call it?” I asked. “Moving on? By lying to your daughter? By planning a closing while I was three states away?”
Brielle stepped forward, her face contorted in a sneer. “Oh, please! You’re never here, Mara! You’re always on base, always playing Marine. Why should you have a say in a house you don’t even visit?”
I looked at my sister. She was twenty-four, and she had spent her life being the favorite, the one who lived in the city, the one who stayed close to mother, the one who would do anything for a bit of reflected glory.
“Because,” I said, “I don’t just visit. I remember.”
I looked at the attorney—not the family’s yes-man, but the one I had hired, who was currently sitting in a car down the street, waiting for my signal.
“Mr. Sloane,” I said. “There is an injunction on this property. You will find that the county registrar has been notified. Any attempt to sign these documents today will be considered an act of fraud. And I have forty-seven messages, sent by these two people, that prove conspiracy to defraud.”
The blood drained from Celeste’s face. It was a rapid, visible retreat. “Forty-seven messages?” she whispered.
May you like
“I was added to the group chat, Mother,” I said. “By accident.”
I leaned in, my voice dropping to that register I used when a recruit failed to clear a sector. “And I read every single word.”
