The Tate house in New Jersey sat on a dying lawn. The paint was peeling.
Isidora pulled Harper's rusted Honda Civic into the driveway. She stared at the house. It was a mausoleum of her childhood trauma.
She walked inside. The air smelled of stale cigarettes and desperation.
Janice, her stepmother, was in the kitchen. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence. The Duchess of Nothing."
Frank sat in the recliner, his face purple with rage. He held the pieces of his cut credit card.
"You embarrassed me," Frank spat. "Do you know how much that membership costs?"
"I don't care about your club," Isidora said. "I want to know about the brooch."
Frank froze. "What?"
"The emerald brooch," Isidora said, stepping closer. "You told me you lost it. But I saw it at L'Eclat. You sold it."
Frank stood up. He was a big man, and he used his size to intimidate. "So what if I did? That was payment! For raising you! You think you were free? You were a burden!"
Isidora felt sick. "That was my mother's."
"Your mother was a lunatic," Frank sneered. "And you're just like her."
Tiffany, her stepsister, walked in. She was wearing a knock-off Versace dress.
"If you're divorcing him," Tiffany said, examining her nails, "give me his number. I bet he'd like someone who knows how to have fun. Not a prude like you."
Isidora looked at them. They were vultures picking at a carcass.
"I'm leaving," Isidora said.
"Not so fast," Frank said. He blocked the door. "There's a community fundraiser tomorrow night. Here. In the backyard."
"So?"
"I told everyone Cash Ferguson is coming," Frank said. "I need him here. To show the neighbors I'm still... connected."
"He won't come," Isidora said. "We aren't speaking."
Frank pulled out his phone. He turned the screen toward her.
It was a photo. Grainy, black and white. A woman in a hospital gown, strapped to a bed, screaming.
Isidora's breath stopped. It was her mother.
"I found this in her old files," Frank said. "If Cash doesn't show up tomorrow, I post this. 'The Crazy Genes of the Ferguson Heir.' The press will eat it up."
Isidora watched her own hands tremble, a fascinating biological reaction to a threat variable. She calmly reached into her purse, her thumb sliding over the record button on her phone. She needed his confession on tape. She needed leverage.
"You wouldn't," she whispered, playing the part.
"Try me," Frank said.
Isidora walked out to the car. Her hands were steady now. The tremor was an affectation she had dismissed. She couldn't put the key in the ignition because she was mapping out the next five moves in a chess game she had no intention of losing.
She had to get Cash here. But not by begging.
She pulled out her burner phone. She texted Cash.
Please. Frank is threatening me. I need you to come to a dinner tomorrow. Just for an hour. I'll do anything.
She knew he would reject her. The rejection was part of the plan. It was the data point she needed to confirm his complete lack of empathy before she moved to the next phase.
She waited.
Three dots appeared. Then vanished.
A message popped up.
Begging?
Then another.
Busy.
Then, a notification: Message Not Delivered. Recipient has blocked this number.
He had blocked her. Perfect.
Isidora dropped the phone. She put her head on the steering wheel, not in despair, but in concentration. She was trapped, but only for the moment.
Then, she remembered something.
Cash had a stress ulcer. He had been complaining about his stomach for weeks before the separation. When he got stressed, he got sick. And when he got sick, he reverted to a child.
Isidora lifted her head. Her eyes were dry.
She knew how to bring him here. She didn't need to ask. She just needed to wait for his body to betray him.
