3. Emily

The old Chevy coughs beneath me, engine rattling in protest with each mile.

Havenford shrinks in the rearview mirror, a smudge of neon against the encroaching twilight. Moms house is at the edge of town, a beacon I dont want to follow. Shouldve kept this trip a surprise. Now Im in for it.

The sea—more of a giant brackish lake, really—cuts across my path. City lights on the far shore dip and dance like fireflies.

Each flicker tightens the knot in my gut. Mom still has the power to twist me up inside, even after all these years.

Her porch light snaps on the second I kill the engine. The door bangs open before my boots hit the cracked concrete.

Emily, darling! Mom barrels down the steps, arms wide. A familiar mix of warmth and guilt floods me. Why couldnt it just be warmth?

She envelops me in a hug, her floral perfume swirling into a nauseating cloud. My girl! I was so surprised when you called. You hardly visit!

I pull away, my practiced smile as stiff as my spine. Just wanted to drop by for a quick visit. Dont fuss, Ma.

Her eyes search mine. Is everything alright? Mom always could slice through my flimsy acts.

The kitchen beckons, its sweet baking scent a trap. Dinner will be on the table in ten minutes, followed by pleading eyes and questions I dont have answers to. My flight leaves in two hours. I cant do this. Not tonight.

Listen, Ma, I cant stay. Need to get to the airport.

The pan shes holding clatters into the sink. The airport? What on earth for?

Its … important. Ill tell you later, okay? I try to soften the blow, but my words hang like stones in the sudden silence.

She stares at me, the lines around her eyes deepening. Emily, honey, please. Just tell me?—

It can wait, Ma. Seriously. I brush past her, desperate to escape the accusing scent of vanilla and burnt sugar.

Wait for what, Emily? Her voice quivers, catching me at the door. Will you ever forgive me?

Theres nothing to forgive, I snap back. But its a lie we both see through.

If you will just tell me … she trails off, her voice breaking.

Fine, I angrily hurl the words at her. Dads dead, Mom. I know you religiously avoid the news because you dont want any updates about Emberton or him, but there it is. And youre invited to the funeral, in case you want to go.

Mom blinks. I hate that Ive done this to her, that it has come to this. But the memories dont help. Im sorry about the news, she finally says, her face suddenly inscrutable. I hope you find peace.

I exhale, counting numbers in my head in an effort to calm myself. Mom, Im sorry. I didnt mean it to come out that way?—

But it did, she cuts me off, a humorless smile appearing on her lips. And I cant say I dont deserve it. I wish I could go, Emily. But Im not crazy. In fact, I hope you know what youre getting into.

I do. My stepmother Verona and half-brother Alec are all but waiting to rip me apart at my fathers estate.

You dont need to do this to yourself either, she says, observing me quietly. Why confront his ghost?

Shes right, but the urge to see him one last time is almost like a physical ache. Yes, he was a miserable father. Nonetheless, he was still part of my life.

Floras already there, I tell her. And I have to go as well. Im sorry. Ill visit once Im back.

She searches my face for something but doesnt find it. She dips her head in acknowledgment. Take some cakes with you.

The silence of the car is almost a relief.

Home was messy, chaotic, smelling of cigarettes, Dads absence, and Moms perfume. Home was hushed nights where Flora snuck into my bed, a small body seeking warmth against shared loneliness.

Home was Dads empty promises on worn postcards, Moms tear-streaked cheeks when we asked when he was coming back. Home was the succession of strange men Mom brought in, none of them bothered with Flora and me.

Mom didnt start being a real mom until after me and Flora moved out. I guess it took our absences to kick her instincts into gear.

Gray thoughts occupy my mind as I reach the airport. The flight back home to Emberton is nondescript, save the couple beside me doing everything except jumping each others bones.

Youre one to talk, a voice in my head dryly comments. Like you didnt have a great time at the fashion show yourself.

I scowl heavily. I havent been able to forget Caeleb, but thankfully, life has been busy.

The plane lands at my childhood home in two hours. My heart is heavy as we deplane and I head toward the exit. However, all is not bleak.

My sister is there, bearing a placard with my name on it, her face split into the widest, silliest grin. Hello, Ms. America.

I all but roll my eyes. Remind me why were staying at the mansion again?

She grimaces. Because it was our home first, and because we dont take shit from anyone, least of all Verona and Alec. But Im getting out of there as soon as the will reading is done.

I brace myself as we head toward Dads mansion. Although it is my home technically, Ive come to view it as an entity separate from myself. It belongs to Dad. It was never mine.

Eventually, we pull up the driveway, and a stretch of viridian soothes my eyes. I breathe in the scent of the familiar grape vineyard in the distance. The mansion unfurls in front of my vision, all sleek lines interspaced with Victorian glamour. Dad had taste, Ill give him that.

Oh, brace yourself, Flora mutters, finishing with a colorful profanity as the car pulls up near the mansion. Verona and Alec are standing at the gates.

Better sooner than later, I remark sourly, as I step down. Verona immediately envelopes me in an uncomfortably tight hug.

Emily, my darling, she drawls in a sickeningly sweet voice. Look at you! Youre even healthier than the last time we met! When was that? I dont remember you coming home in the last seven years!

Resisting the urge to pull her expensive extensions apart, I offer her a glacial smile. Thats because I didnt visit, Verona. I figured you were keeping Dad so happy, he wouldnt need any additional company.

The honey-dripping smile vanishes from her lips and is replaced by something uglier. Both Flora and I know Dad never stayed home for as long as he was alive. He just visited the mansion from time to time, to keep up appearances.

He married my stepmother for her beauty, but couldnt keep up with the nastiness, or his biological need to warm other beds.

I guess youre here for the will reading? Alec butts in.

Not really, I say, casting a withering glance at him. To his credit, he doesnt flinch. Im here to see him one last time.

Better dead than never, he replies, his lips curling in a smirk.

Flora decides, at this point, that shes had enough. She roughly pushes past Alec and drags me into the mansion.

I brace myself as I step inside, expecting to be greeted by the beautiful Victorian familiarity. However, what assaults my senses is nothing short of a decorative massacre. My stepmom has unleashed a frenzy of renovations that have transformed the once dignified interiors into a flamboyant spectacle.

Pink touches everything, as if a giant flamingo had exploded, scattering feathers of garishness into every nook and cranny.

Flora, ever the master of understatement, whistles lowly beside me. Looks like Barbie had a mid-life crisis here, she murmurs, her eyes scanning the horror show with a mix of amusement and disbelief.

I cant help but snort at her comment, covering my mouth too late as a laugh escapes. And Kens nowhere in sight to save the day, I add, my gaze landing on a particularly atrocious pink velvet settee that looks more like a throne for a tyrannical queen of tackiness.

As we make our way deeper into the house, Verona reappears. Weve been renovating the place, she coos, her voice dripping with a sweetness that could give you cavities. But your room is untouched.

I can see that, youve really outdone yourself with the place, Flora says, her tone dripping with a sarcasm so thick you could slice it with a knife.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing, offering a non-committal, Its certainly … different.

Veronas eyes narrow for a split second before she recovers, plastering on a smile. I just wanted to brighten things up a bit.

Mission accomplished, I say, glancing around. Its positively radiant.

Undeterred by our lack of enthusiasm, Verona launches into a tirade of barbs thinly veiled as compliments, criticizing our life choices and wardrobe with the precision of a seasoned sniper.

Flora and I exchange a look, a silent agreement passing between us. Without a word, we turn on our heels and head to our room, leaving Veronas words to echo impotently behind us.

Once safely ensconced in the relative normalcy of our childhood room, Flora flops onto the bed. I swear, if she adds one more pink cushion to this house, Im staging an intervention.

I chuckle, collapsing beside her. Might be too late for that. I think weve crossed into a pink event horizon.

Flora grins, propping herself up on an elbow. So, whats the plan? Grin and bear it, or go full poltergeist on the decor?

Im leaning towards a poltergeist, I admit, but lets not give her the satisfaction.

We share a laugh, the tension from earlier dissipating like mist. At least this room is as beautiful as it used to be.

Moonbeams spill through the ornate stained glass, casting a serene silver glow across the room. The cool light bathes the intricate tilework beneath my feet, each diamond of marble reflecting a soft, luminous sheen.

The air, crisp and fresh, carries a hint of night-blooming jasmine, mingling with the serene calm of the evening. The walls, adorned with silk brocade wallpaper, gleam subtly under the moons gentle embrace.

The wide archway to my right, leading to the adjoining parlor, frames a view where gossamer curtains flutter slightly in the night breeze, enhancing the rooms airy and inviting ambiance. A crystal chandelier overhead, now unlit, catches the moons silver rays, its prisms casting soft, diffused reflections.

Theres a knock on the door. Yes? I call out.

Dinner is served, a familiar voice calls out.

Albert, the ever-present butler from my childhood, peeks in, a warm smile on his careworn face. He looked a hundred years old when I was ten, and he looks a hundred now. Maybe hes a benign vampire.

Well be there shortly, I tell him, returning his smile. All good, Albert?

His moustache twitches. As good as it can be, Miss.

A minute later, with our hearts full of dread, we head to the dining room. Alec is already seated at the head of the table. Hes not wasting any time. Verona is beside him.

Flora and I sit across from each other.

The dinner table is a battlefield tonight, and the weapons are words sharper than any knife in this mansion. I sit, trying to navigate through the sumptuous affair thats more visual feast than nourishing meal, when Alec decides to turn his venomous wit my way.

So, Emily, he starts, his voice dripping with faux concern, hows the modeling lifestyle treating you? Must be nice, getting to sleep in while the rest of us contribute to society.

I grit my teeth, forcing a smile. Its going wonderfully, thanks. The freedom is really something else.

Alec smirks, not missing a beat. And here I thought freedom just meant more time for snacks. Hows that working out for your figure?

Thats when Flora, whos been silent up until now, finally snaps. Why dont you worry about your own figure, Alec? Or better yet, your personality. Its looking a bit thin.

The table goes silent. My eyes dart between Flora and Alec, begging for peace without uttering a single word.

Alec, clearly not used to being challenged, especially not by Flora, leans forward, his face a mask of mock offense. Oh, Im sorry. Did I hit a nerve? I forget how sensitive you girls can be.

Floras response is immediate, her tone icy. And I forget how insensitive idiots can be. But there you go, reminding me.

Alec laughs, a sound as unpleasant as nails on a chalkboard. Cute. Really. But at least when I open my mouth, I dont just spew rubbish.

Thats when Flora does it. Without a word, she stands, her chair scraping loudly against the floor, and before anyone can react, she slaps Alec across the face. The sound echoes in the room, a sharp crack that marks the line weve all crossed.

Silence descends, thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of Alecs chair tipping backward as he stands, his hand to his cheek, his eyes wide with shock and anger.