The headlights of my Aston Martin swept across the driveway. Pitch black.
I killed the engine. For ten years, the amber porch light always burned, a steady beacon cutting through the Seattle fog. Tonight, the facade of the mansion looked like a hollowed-out skull.
I pushed the front door open. My leather shoe caught on something hard.
A plastic truck skidded across the hardwood, slamming into the baseboard.
"Leo!" I shouted, rubbing my shin.
Silence.
I flicked the wall switch. The crystal chandelier illuminated a disaster zone. Muddy footprints tracked across the Persian rug. A half-eaten box of donuts sat on the custom mahogany console, powdered sugar dusted over my mail.
"Julian? Is that you?"
Serena appeared at the top of the stairs. She wore a sheer silk robe, a half-empty glass of Merlot dangling from her fingers. She didn't come down to greet me.
"Why is the house completely dark?" I asked, dropping my briefcase on a chair. It slid off and hit the floor, spilling files. I left it there.
"I forgot the switch," Serena said, taking a sip. "You work too late."
"Where is Leo?"
"In his room. Playing his games."
"It's eleven o'clock on a Tuesday," I said, my voice hardening. "He has school tomorrow."
Serena waved her free hand dismissively. "Oh, let him be. He was crying earlier. I didn't want to upset him."
"Crying about what?"
"He couldn't find his soccer cleats."
I walked up the stairs, bypassing her, and pushed Leo's door open. The boy sat cross-legged in the center of a hurricane. Clothes buried the floor. Candy wrappers covered his desk. The iPad blasted alien laser sounds at max volume.
"Turn it off," I ordered.
Leo didn't look up. "Aunt Serena said I could beat this level."
I snatched the tablet from his hands.
"Hey!" Leo screamed, jumping to his feet. His fists balled up at his sides. "Give it back!"
"Go to sleep, Leo. Now."
"I hate you!" he yelled. "And I hate this house! There are no clean shirts, and my stomach hurts!"
I stared at him. "Why does your stomach hurt?"
"Because Aunt Serena gave me soda for dinner!"
Serena leaned against the doorframe, pouting. "Julian, don't look at me like that. He refused to eat the sushi we ordered. What was I supposed to do? Starve him?"
"You cook something," I snapped.
"I don't cook," she fired back, her tone sharpening. "You know that."
"Then hire a chef! Hire a maid! Do something, Serena!"
"I tried! The maid quit yesterday because Leo threw a tantrum and locked her in the pantry!"
I dragged a hand down my face. The muscles in my jaw throbbed.
"Get into bed, Leo," I said.
"Clara used to make me warm milk," Leo muttered, kicking a dirty sock.
The name hit the room like a grenade.
Serena stiffened. Her knuckles turned white around the wine glass.
"Clara isn't here," I said. "Get in bed."
I walked past Serena and headed straight for the master bedroom. The chaos followed me. The bed was unmade. Towels littered the bathroom floor, damp and sour.
I stripped off my suit jacket and walked down to the kitchen.
The smell hit me first. Spoiled milk and grease.
The sink overflowed with plates crusty with dried ketchup. Trash bags piled up by the back door.
I opened the refrigerator. I needed a bottle of water. I needed a hot meal.
Empty shelves stared back at me. A single jar of olives and three bottles of expensive champagne sat on the glass.
I gripped the edge of the stainless-steel door.
For ten years, this fridge was stocked. Tupperware containers labeled with dates. Roast chicken. Fresh vegetables. Whenever I came home late, a plate would be waiting in the microwave. The house would smell of lavender and lemon. My suits were pressed. My son was asleep.
I slammed the fridge shut.
Serena walked into the kitchen. She set her empty glass on the counter, pushing a pile of junk mail aside.
"Are you going to yell at me all night?" she asked.
"I'm not yelling," I said.
"You are punishing me," she insisted, crossing her arms. "Just because I'm not some domestic servant like your ex-wife."
"Don't bring her into this."
"You brought her into this! You expect me to magically know where everything is. You expect me to parent a child who doesn't respect me."
"Where is the Sumatra coffee?" I asked, opening the pantry.
"I threw it out," Serena said. "It smelled bitter."
"You threw out a four-hundred-dollar bag of imported beans?"
"I bought instant! It's the same thing!"
I closed the pantry. "It is not the same thing."
"You wanted me to live here," she reminded me, her voice rising. "You said you wanted me to be his mother."
"I want you to be a partner, Serena. Not a guest in a hotel."
She turned and marched out of the kitchen. Her bare feet slapped against the sticky hardwood.
I didn't follow her.
I stood alone in the center of the rotting kitchen. The silence of the mansion pressed against my eardrums.
I walked over to the stove. The burner was stained with burnt sauce. I traced a finger over the cold metal.
*You'll be crawling back when your bank account runs dry.*
My own words mocked me in the dark.
Clara had walked out with one suitcase. She left the money, the cars, the jewelry. She left me.
I unbuttoned my cuffs and rolled up my sleeves. I grabbed a sponge, turned on the hot water, and started scrubbing the plates. The water burned my knuckles, but I didn't stop. I scrubbed until my skin turned red.
Suddenly, a harsh laugh tore from my throat.
It sounded completely foreign. I dropped the sponge.
I was washing dishes at midnight. The CEO of Mercer Enterprises, standing in a pigsty, suddenly realizing the invisible foundation of his entire life had vanished.
Clara never complained. She just handled it. She remembered the coffee. She remembered the porch light. She absorbed Leo's tantrums so I never had to hear them.
I dried my hands and pulled out my phone. I opened my contacts and tapped her name.
*Call failed. Number blocked.*
I stared at the screen. She actually blocked me.
I walked into my study, seeking the only clean room left in the house. I locked the heavy oak door behind me and poured a glass of scotch.
I sat at my desk, booting up my laptop. I needed to focus on the upcoming merger. I needed to forget the mess outside this room.
An email notification popped up in the corner of the screen.
*Sender: Private Investigator Davis.*
*Subject: Urgent - Clara Mercer's Recent Activity.*
I clicked it open.
The message was brief.
*Mr. Mercer, your ex-wife didn't just move to Vermont. She filed a formal request for the police records from the 2012 highway collision. The one involving her parents. And someone from inside the department just granted her full access to the evidence locker.*
The glass slipped from my hand, shattering against the floorboards.
