Chapter 7 - The Midnight Visitor
At 9:43 that night, somebody knocked on my back door.
I was sitting in Grandpa's study with a blanket around my shoulders.
The old house was quiet except for the furnace clicking on and the occasional scrape of branches against the windows.
I'd left the porch lights burning.
Margaret had asked me to call the sheriff if anyone returned and refused to leave.
I'd also spoken to our neighbor, retired deputy Frank Dawson, who lived across the road.
Frank had known Grandpa for more than thirty years.
When I'd told him what happened, he'd simply said, "Sam warned me there might be trouble."
Then he'd given me his number and told me to call if I needed help.
Now, standing in the dark hallway, I looked toward the back door.
The knock came again.
Three quick taps.
Then two more.
"Clara?"
A woman's voice.
I moved closer.
"Who is it?"
"Chloe."
I stopped.
"Why are you here?"
"Please open the door."
I looked through the window beside it.
Chloe stood beneath the porch light wearing jeans and a thin cream-colored sweater.
Her designer sunglasses were gone.
So was the arrogant expression she'd worn that morning.
She looked frightened.
I kept the door locked.
"What do you want?"
"To talk."
"Then talk."
She glanced toward the driveway.
"Not through the door."
I hesitated.
I barely knew my sister.
That realization had always hurt.
We shared parents.
We shared childhood photographs from the first two years of her life, photographs Grandpa had managed to keep.
But we didn't share memories.
She'd grown up somewhere else.
With the people who'd left me behind.
"How did you get here?"
"I drove."
"Did Mom and Dad send you?"
"No."
I stared through the glass.
"Chloe."
She looked at me.
"Please."
Something in her voice made me unlock the door.
I left the chain attached.
"What happened?"
She glanced down.
"Dad's furious."
"That isn't surprising."
"He called his lawyer."
"I know."
"He said you're going to ruin everything."
I felt an unexpected flash of anger.
"I haven't done anything."
Chloe looked up.
"I know."
Those two words surprised me more than anything else she'd said.
I removed the chain.
She stepped inside.
I immediately locked the door again.
Chloe stood in the kitchen, looking around.
Without the sunglasses and expensive handbag, she seemed almost like a stranger who'd wandered into the wrong house.
"Do you want tea?"
She blinked.
"What?"
"Tea."
She shook her head.
"No."
I folded my arms.
"Then tell me why you're here."
Chloe swallowed.
"Dad told me to look for a metal box."
My heartbeat quickened.
"What metal box?"
"Something in Grandpa's study."
I stared at her.
"He wanted you to steal it?"
She flinched.
"He said it belonged to him."
"What did it look like?"
"Green."
She hesitated.
"About the size of a shoebox."
I looked toward the study.
Grandpa had kept a green metal cash box in the bottom drawer of his desk for as long as I could remember.
He used it to store old receipts, family photographs, and the spare keys to the garage.
At least, that's what I thought it contained.
"Why does he want it?"
Chloe rubbed her arms.
"He said Grandpa took something from him."
"What?"
"I don't know."
I studied her face.
For the first time, I wondered how much of our parents' version of history she'd been forced to believe.
"Chloe, why are you telling me this?"
Her eyes filled.
"Because I think Dad's lying."
I didn't answer.
She looked at the floor.
"About a lot of things."
The kitchen clock ticked.
Chloe continued.
"He told us Grandpa had promised him the property."
"He didn't."
"I know that now."
She swallowed.
"And he told me you'd been living here because you hated us."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"That you didn't want to be part of the family."
My chest tightened.
I remembered all the evenings I'd spent wondering whether Chloe knew I existed.
All the birthdays when I'd looked at photographs of her online.
All the times I'd almost sent her a message.
Then stopped because I didn't know what to say.
"Chloe, I was five."
She nodded.
"I know."
"You were two."
"I know."
"How could I have hated you?"
She wiped her face.
"That's what I started asking myself."
The silence between us changed.
Not into trust.
Not yet.
But into something less hostile.
I pulled out a kitchen chair.
"Sit down."
She did.
Then I filled the kettle.
It felt strange.
Making tea for my sister in the same kitchen where Grandpa had taught me to count measuring cups.
I placed a mug in front of her.
She stared at it.
"Grandpa really raised you here?"
I sat across from her.
"Yes."
"All those years?"
"Every single one."
She looked around the kitchen.
"Dad always said you were difficult."
I laughed without humor.
"At five?"
"He said you had behavioral problems."
I stared at her.
Chloe's face reddened.
"I know how it sounds."
I thought about the little girl I'd been.
The one who'd cried every night for the first month.
The one who'd refused to sleep without the small stuffed rabbit Mom had left in my overnight bag.
The one who'd asked Grandpa whether she had done something bad.
"Did he ever tell you what kind of problems?"
Chloe looked down.
"He said you lied."
I felt something sharp in my chest.
"About what?"
"He never explained."
I was quiet for a moment.
Then I said, "He told the police I might've caused an accident when I was five."
Chloe's head snapped up.
"What?"
I told her.
Not everything.
Not all at once.
But enough.
The accident.
The false statement.
The settlement money.
Grandpa taking me in.
My parents never returning.
Chloe sat perfectly still.
When I finished, she whispered, "That's impossible."
I nodded.
"I thought so too."
She looked toward the front door.
"Mom knew?"
"Yes."
"Dad?"
"Yes."
She covered her mouth.
I watched her struggle to absorb the truth.
Then she said something I didn't expect.
"Dad told me you were the reason we lost our first house."
I went cold.
"What?"
"He said Grandpa had to take you because you caused some legal problems."
I stared at her.
The story wasn't merely that I'd been difficult.
In their home, I had apparently become the explanation for everything that went wrong.
The lost business.
The old debts.
The broken family.
A five-year-old scapegoat.
I looked at Chloe.
"Did you believe him?"
She started crying.
"Yes."
The admission hurt.
But there was something about her honesty that made it easier to bear.
"I was a kid," she whispered.
"I believed everything they told me."
I looked toward Grandpa's study.
He'd spent seventeen years protecting me from the ugliest parts of my parents' choices.
Meanwhile, they'd raised my sister to think I was the problem.
Chloe suddenly reached across the table.
"Clara, there's something else."
I looked back at her.
"What?"
"Dad borrowed money."
"I know."
"No."
She shook her head.
"Recently."
My heart started pounding.
"How recently?"
"Last month."
I stared.
"He met with a man named Victor Hale."
I didn't recognize the name.
"Who is that?"
"Some kind of investor."
She lowered her voice.
"Dad told him the house would be available after Grandpa died."
I felt a chill.
"What do you mean, available?"
Chloe wiped her face.
"He said Grandpa was going to leave it to him."
I leaned forward.
"Did Victor give him money?"
She nodded.
"How much?"
"I don't know exactly."
"Chloe."
She looked at me.
"Dad said it was enough to cover the business debt."
I felt the room tighten around me.
"And what happens when Victor finds out the house isn't Dad's?"
Chloe began shaking.
"That's why I'm here."
I stared at her.
She whispered, "Victor already knows."
Before I could ask how, headlights swept across the kitchen window.
Chloe froze.
A vehicle rolled slowly into the driveway.
Then another.
I moved toward the window and looked out.
A black SUV had stopped beside Grandpa's old pickup.
Behind it was a second vehicle.
My father stepped out of the first.
He wasn't alone.
A tall man in a dark coat climbed out beside him.
Chloe grabbed my arm.
"That's Victor."
My phone began ringing.
Dad.
I rejected the call.
It rang again.
Then a text appeared.
OPEN THE DOOR, CLARA.
I stood motionless.
Another message followed.
WE NEED TO DISCUSS WHAT YOU STOLE FROM ME.
Chloe's fingers tightened around my wrist.
Outside, my father looked up at the kitchen window.
Then Victor Hale reached into his coat.
And pulled out a folded document.
May you like
At the top, printed in bold letters, were two words I could read even from the window.
EVICTION NOTICE.
