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And he has enough problems of his own.
I grab my keys and purse, pausing at the door—shit. The salad. I hurry back, shove it into the fridge, and head out. Luckily, I don’t feel the need to purge. It’s like his food has thismagic power, but my stomach churns anyway as I head to my parent’s house.
In the driver’s seat, I hesitate, then pull out my phone.
Naomi: Can I come by later?
Blake: You’re always welcome.
Blake: Everything okay?
Naomi: I don’t know. My mom wants to see me.
Blake: I’ll wait.
I set my phone down.
What could be so urgent that my mother, Lydia Smith, queen of composure, sounds rattled?
Only one way to find out.
The house I grew up in feels different at night with shadows stretching across marble floors, family photos watching from the walls like silent judges.
“Mom?”
“In here.” Her voice drifts from the living room.
The lights are dimmed, casting everything in a soft amber glow. My mother sits on the leather couch, back straight as a rod. Picture perfect.
Except.
She looks up at me with a forced smile, her fingers twisting the gold necklace at her throat. Once. Twice. Three times. “Sit down, darling.”
“What’s going on?” I remain standing.
“Naomi. My lovely daughter.” She rises, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her silk robe. “I love you. You know that, right?”
Ice spreads through my veins. “What is this about?”
“I want you to understand.” She reaches for me with trembling hands, but I flinch away. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“You said we would never talk about it.”
“Clara had everything.” My mother’s perfect mask cracks, revealing something ugly underneath. “The house, David’s love, Anne’s devotion. Even you. You adored her more than me. More than your own mother.”
“She was kind to me.” Clara was always kind to Mykel and me, even if we were the children of the woman who stole her husband.
“Kind? She was trying to steal you from me.” Her fingers twist her necklace harder. “And now history is repeating itself. Anne’s getting everything again. The company shares, David’s attention, that painting.”
The salad I ate earlier feels like lead. “Mom, please.”
“You remember that night, don’t you?” Her eyes lock onto mine, searching.
The garage floods my senses instantly—the sharp smell of oil, the cold concrete under my knees, the scraping of metal against metal. Mom’s frantic movements in the shadows.
“I did what I had to do.” She reaches for me, and this time, I’m too frozen to move away. Her fingers caress my cheek. “For us. For you and Mykel. I gave you everything.”
“You gave me guilt.” Every time I look at Anne, every time I smell cinnamon, every time I try to eat. “Do you know what that’s done to me?”