Page 37 of The Birthday Girl
C hrome wheels crunched to a halt against the curb outside of New Hope Baptist Church. Behind the Range Rover limo’s midnight-tinted glass, Tahlia's face remained motionless while camera flashes exploded against the windows as hungry vultures pecked for a glimpse of the darkness within.
Police cruisers flanked the street, their lights spinning silently while a phalanx of private security formed a wall between the church doors and the surging crowd.
Metal barricades kept reporters, mourners, and nosy bystanders pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with their cell phones and cameras lifted high in hopes of getting a shot worth selling.
Uniformed officers barked orders at the throng, and behind them, suited men with earpieces scanned the sidewalks. The Banks’ name had always drawn attention, but today it looked like a head of state had arrived.
Real estate moguls received attention, but never like this.
This kind of spotlight was reserved for Hollywood stars or trust fund heirs caught with cocaine and call girls.
There was nothing remotely glamorous about kneeling before a casket, no matter how tasteful the lacquered wood or the floral arrangements were.
The church itself was dressed in mourning.
Black cloth hung over its brick facade, and the white cross above the steeple glared against the gray afternoon sky as bouquets of lilies and roses framed the front steps.
Locals who had known the Banks family for decades stood shoulder to shoulder with family members and ambitious strangers, all waiting for a glimpse of the daughter left to carry their legacy.
Inside the limo, Tahlia sat poised in the plush leather seat, her black dress clinging to her hourglass figure, and a single strand of pearls softening the neckline.
Her hair was in a cascade of glossy curls that caught the dim light, and her makeup was immaculate.
Winged liner as sharp as a blade, and lipstick the precise shade of a bruised rose that lent her beauty without excess.
Tahlia had crafted the balance carefully. Her intent was to look striking, but never so much that anyone could accuse her of vanity. Today, she wanted to be perceived as the grieving daughter, not a model on a runway.
She checked her reflection in a compact mirror.
She was calm, composed, and even slightly bored.
Heather dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, and Ezra watched her before shifting his gaze to Tahlia.
He’d spent enough years around her to know the stillness in her body wasn’t devastation. It was strategy.
When the door opened, reporters shouted her name, and cameras snapped as though they knew her.
Tahlia exhaled, then in the span of a heartbeat, she transformed.
Her spine curled, and her lips parted, trembling with the hint of unshed tears.
By the time her heels hit the pavement, her hand fluttered delicately to her chest, as if only the pearls kept her heart from breaking in two.
She reached for Heather’s arm, allowing herself to be guided, her eyes glistening for the world to see.
The crowd responded instantly. Voices softened, phones lowered in reverence, and the reporters’ questions were now wrapped in sympathy. To them, she was the perfect picture of tragedy.
Ezra followed a half-step behind, his head held high, eyes focused on Tahlia’s back.
He had seen her dry-eyed composure in the limo and seen the moment she easily slipped into her mask of grief.
The switch was too seamless and too easy for his liking, but he said nothing.
He just adjusted his tie and kept his eyes forward.
The doors of New Hope gaped open wide, the entryway drowned in sprays of white roses and lilies that perfumed the air with something sweet.
Pallbearers in matching white suits stood ready, their solemn faces set in grief.
Inside, the hum of the organ drifted out to meet the clamor of the street.
It was a low, steady dirge fighting to be heard above the shouts and camera shutters.
Heather clutched Tahlia’s arm as they climbed the steps, whispering something that was lost to the chaos around them.
Tahlia nodded faintly, her expression carved in glassy sorrow, the tilt of her chin rehearsed, the moisture at her lashes catching the light at just the right angle. Her performance was seamless.
From the barricades, family friends and locals craned their necks.
Some shouted blessings, others their condolences.
Family members who had not been given seats inside jostled against security for a better view, hoping their presence would be noticed.
More than one face wore bitterness under its grief, and anger that the Banks legacy had been distilled to one daughter, one image, one story.
Cameras popped with every step Tahlia took, documenting the way her black heels caught the sun, the way her hand lingered at her throat, and the way her grief seemed to hover delicately between collapse and endurance. The narrative was writing itself, and she made sure to feed it.
Ezra kept his pace measured, his face unreadable, though his thoughts were anything but.
He watched her gather the world’s sympathy like roses tossed at her feet.
He had seen clients cry for cameras, had even coached them through it, but she slipped into sorrow as easily as people slip into silk. The ease of it made his stomach turn.
The moment they crossed the threshold into the church, the outside roar fell away, swallowed by organ music.
The cool air smelled faintly of polish and a mixture of colognes and perfumes.
The pews were packed with family and old friends of the family mixed with rivals and opportunists scattered through the rows.
Every eye turned toward the door as Tahlia entered, and the ushers led them to the front row, past a gallery of faces that flickered with curiosity. Heather dabbed at her eyes again, Ezra straightened his jacket, and Tahlia ducked her chin lower, as if the weight of the world had pressed it down.
The grieving daughter had arrived.
A ripple of murmurs moved through the pews, hushed voices weaving under the drone of the organ.
Old neighbors pressed handkerchiefs to their mouths, some genuinely weeping, others watching Tahlia with equal parts reverence and suspicion.
They whispered to one another about the absence of caskets, about how no one had seen the bodies, and about how the explosion might not have left anything at all.
Two massive portraits of Steve and Tisha Banks dominated the altar, framed by roses and candles, their glossy smiles turned into saints’ icons.
The effect was both beautiful and hollow.
A memorial without bodies was a stage play, and everyone knew it.
Still, people filled the pews, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the aisles, eager to witness history, or scandal, unfold.
Tahlia lowered her head and sat, the picture of humility, as she let a single tear slip free, catching the soft glow of the altar candles. Gasps fluttered through the crowd as if grief itself had trickled down her cheek. She paused long enough to let them absorb it before dabbing her eyes.
The organ swelled, vibrating through the wooden pews. An usher moved to close the double doors, muting the outside chaos of sirens, reporters, and clicking shutters. For the first time all morning, the sanctuary grew quiet enough to hear the soft sobs sprinkled among the crowd.
Ezra sat stiffly, his hands folded in his lap. He told himself to keep his eyes forward, to do his job, but a thought gnawed at him. Grief was supposed to fracture people, but Tahlia had weaponized hers.
The organ faded, and the preacher stepped forward, his black robe swaying as he mounted the pulpit. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and looked out over the crowded sanctuary.
“We gather here today not with answers, but with faith,” he began, his voice deep and steady, a cadence that carried both comfort and authority.
“The Bible tells us in Psalms ninety: The days of our years are threescore years and ten. And if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow. For it is soon cut off, and we fly away. ” He paused, letting the scripture breathe in the silence.
“Steve and Tisha Banks did not live to see those years promised,” he continued, his voice trembling just slightly.
“Their time was shorter, and their departure was sudden, but the Word says God makes no mistakes. Even when tragedy tears at our flesh, and even when we cry out asking, ‘Why them, Lord? Why now?’, we are reminded that His plan is perfect, though it may not be clear to us on this side of heaven.”
Heads bowed, and amens rippled softly through the congregation.
The preacher spread his arms, his robe sleeves falling like wings.
“We remember a man and woman who built, who gave, who raised, who loved. A legacy that cannot be measured by the days they walked among us, but by the lives they touched. And we pray, not only for comfort, but for unity among those they leave behind.”
A short prayer was followed by whispered voices rising and falling in unison.
Then the preacher closed his Bible, set it gently on the podium, and folded his hands.
His tone softened into reverence. “At this time, we will open the floor to family, beginning with their beloved daughter, Ms. Tahlia Banks.”