Chapter 9 - Sunday Dinner
I wanted to drive straight to my father's house.
I wanted to break down his front door, find Oliver, and drag my uncle into the street.
Instead, I showed Torres the photograph.
She called Foster immediately.
Within an hour, investigators were reviewing Victor's known properties and requesting emergency preservation of security footage and relevant phone records.
But the photograph wasn't enough to prove Oliver was inside Dad's house.
The backpack could have been moved.
The picture could have been taken somewhere else.
Victor could claim he'd bought an identical one.
I hated every reasonable explanation.
I hated that criminals could exploit uncertainty while terrified families waited for proof.
Then Foster asked me a question.
"Do you think your father would agree to meet you?"
I stared at her.
"He invited me to Sunday dinner."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
She nodded slowly.
"We're not asking you to investigate for us. But if you already intended to attend, we should talk about your safety."
"I want to go."
"Mara."
"I know you can't promise Oliver will be there. But my father has spent twenty years telling me what to believe. I want to look him in the eye."
Foster studied me.
"Then we discuss boundaries. You don't search the property. You don't provoke a confrontation. You leave if anything feels wrong."
I agreed.
At least, I agreed out loud.
That evening, Eliam came to Natalie's house.
He stood on the porch holding a small grocery bag.
Natalie opened the door.
"She's not interested in apologies."
"I know."
"Then what are you doing here?"
He lifted the bag.
"She hasn't eaten properly since yesterday."
Inside were soup, bread, and the ginger tea I always drank when I was stressed.
Natalie stared at him.
Then stepped aside.
I was sitting at the kitchen table when he entered.
He looked at the bruise on my face.
Pain moved across his expression.
"How are you?"
"Angry."
"Fair."
"Confused."
"I understand."
"And I'm thinking about divorce."
He stopped.
The words surprised me.
Not because they weren't true.
Because I'd finally said them aloud.
Eliam slowly set down the bag.
"I deserve that."
"Maybe."
He sat across from me.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, "I met with a lawyer today."
My chest tightened.
"About divorce?"
"No. About the witness statement."
I looked up.
"I told the court Rachel was alive because I thought doing so would prevent your father from having her declared dead. I believed she'd be safer if there was an official record."
"Why didn't you show me?"
"Her attorney said disclosure could reveal her location. We agreed to keep the testimony under seal temporarily."
"Temporarily."
He nodded.
"I kept thinking there would be a day when Rachel could come home safely. That day never came."
I stared at him.
"You let me mourn her."
His eyes filled.
"I know."
"You watched me cry on her birthday."
"Yes."
"You let me visit an empty grave."
He bowed his head.
"Yes."
"And every time I asked whether you thought she suffered, you told me she was at peace."
He covered his face.
I wasn't finished.
"You don't get to tell me you did all of that because you loved me."
He lowered his hands.
"I won't."
The silence that followed was painful.
Then he said, "I did love you. I still do. But I used protecting Rachel as an excuse not to face what the truth would cost me. I was afraid of losing you."
I looked toward the window.
"Well, now you might."
He nodded.
I expected him to argue.
He didn't.
After a while, he asked, "Are you going to your father's dinner?"
"Yes."
He looked alarmed.
"Mara..."
"Investigators know."
He exhaled.
"Good."
"I want you there."
He stared.
"Are you sure?"
"No. But Dad thinks we're fine. And if you suddenly disappear from his life, he'll know something has changed."
Eliam nodded.
"I'll go."
I studied him.
"One rule."
"Anything."
"No more secrets. Not even the ones you think will protect me."
He looked directly at me.
"Agreed."
The next evening, we drove to my father's house together.
The mansion sat on a hill overlooking a private stretch of wooded land.
Tall stone pillars framed the driveway.
The windows glowed warmly.
It looked like the kind of home people admired from a distance.
I knew what could happen behind those walls.
Dad opened the front door before we rang.
"Mara!"
He embraced me.
I went stiff.
He smelled of expensive cologne and the same cedar soap he'd used since I was a little girl.
"My sweetheart," he said. "You look tired."
"Busy week."
He kissed my forehead.
Then shook Eliam's hand.
"Good to see you, son."
Eliam smiled tightly.
"Arthur."
Dad led us inside.
The dining room was already prepared.
White tablecloth.
Silver candlesticks.
Fresh flowers.
The same expensive dishes we'd used at Christmas for as long as I could remember.
Uncle Victor stood beside the fireplace, holding a glass of whiskey.
He smiled when he saw me.
"There's my favorite niece."
I wanted to hit him.
Instead, I hugged him.
His hand rested briefly against my back.
I wondered how many times those hands had hurt people.
Dinner began with ordinary conversation.
Dad complained about city regulations.
Victor discussed a new property development.
Eliam talked about work.
I listened.
Every word felt rehearsed.
Then Dad set down his fork.
"Now, Mara, I hear you've been asking questions about your sister."
The room went silent.
Eliam's hand tightened around his glass.
I looked at my father.
"What kind of questions?"
Dad smiled.
"Old questions."
"Who told you?"
"People talk."
"About Rachel?"
He sighed.
"Sweetheart, I know anniversaries can bring up difficult feelings."
I stared at him.
"Do you miss her?"
His expression softened.
"Every day."
I felt something inside me go cold.
"Really?"
"Of course."
"Then tell me something."
He placed his napkin beside his plate.
"Anything."
"What color was the dress she wore to her funeral?"
Victor stopped chewing.
Dad blinked.
"What?"
"Her funeral. You arranged everything. What color was her dress?"
Dad gave a sad smile.
"Mara, your sister was cremated."
"I know."
"So there wasn't a dress."
I leaned forward.
"Then why did you tell me you buried her in the blue dress Mom bought her for graduation?"
The color drained from his face.
For the first time in my life, my father didn't have an answer ready.
Victor set down his glass.
Eliam looked toward the door.
Dad recovered quickly.
"I don't remember saying that."
"I do."
"Mara, grief distorts memories."
I smiled.
"That's funny. Everyone keeps telling me that."
Dad watched me.
"What exactly are you suggesting?"
I placed my napkin on the table.
"That maybe I should have asked more questions nine years ago."
His expression changed.
The warmth disappeared.
In its place was the face I'd seen when I was a child and disobeyed him.
Cold.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
"You've been talking to people who don't understand our family."
"Who?"
He glanced at Eliam.
Then back at me.
"People who want to destroy everything I've built."
Victor stood.
"Arthur, maybe we should have dessert."
Dad ignored him.
"Mara, your sister was troubled. You know that."
I looked into his eyes.
"Was she?"
He leaned closer.
"Don't make the same mistakes she did."
For one heartbeat, I saw something move behind the doorway.
A small shadow.
A child.
Then the figure disappeared.
I stood.
"Excuse me. I need the bathroom."
Dad reached across the table and grabbed my wrist.
Hard.
"Sit down."
The room went silent.
I looked at his hand.
Then at his face.
"Let go."
He held on for another second.
Then released me.
I walked calmly into the hallway.
My heart was pounding.
I knew Foster had warned me not to search the house.
I knew I should turn around.
But then I heard a sound from the back staircase.
A boy's voice.
Small.
Frightened.
"Please. I just want my mom."
I stopped.
The voice came from upstairs.
Then a man spoke.
"Your mother will come when she learns to cooperate."
Victor.
My uncle.
I reached for my phone.
Before I could dial, a hand closed over my mouth from behind.
I was pulled backward into a dark room.
And a familiar voice whispered against my ear.
May you like
"Don't scream, Mara."
It was my father.
