2. Lacey
2
LACEY
My phone rings just as I'm pulling out of the parking lot. My sister Megan’s name flashes across the screen, and I hit the speaker button.
"Hey Megan."
"Lacey! I'm so sorry, but I've got to work late tonight. My boss wants me to help fact-check everything before we upload the latest episode.”
"Since when did the Voice start fact-checking?" I merge into the right lane, heading north.
I can practically see Megan rolling her eyes on the other end.
The Seattle Voice, where Megan works, is a podcast that claims to be hard-hitting citizen journalists telling the truths that “the man” doesn’t want us to know about.
But from the few episodes Megan made me listen, it sounds more like the ramblings of multiple conspiracy theorists all trying to shout over each other in thirty-minute segments.
I guess that’s why it has over seven million listeners. Not for nothing else, it is pretty damn entertaining.
"Ha-ha, real funny," she says. "I'm just calling because I need you to check on Dad for me. I know Freddy's supposed to be there, but..." She trails off meaningfully. "Well, I don’t trust him."
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Yeah, of course. I was about to head that way anyway." A lie, but a small one. "Actually, I was planning on crashing there tonight."
"What? Why?" There's a pause, and I can practically hear her brain clicking into gear. "Everything alright?"
"Yeah, just..." I bite my lip, debating how much to tell her. Not about Nathan. Not yet. And definitely not about the gorgeous billionaire who's about to put Mrs. Klossner out of business. "Just one of those days, you know?"
"Lacey, the work day's barely just gotten started." She doesn't sound convinced. "Look, I'll pop over later, and you can tell me everything."
"Everything's fine?—"
"Don't even try it. I know that tone. That's your 'everything is absolutely not fine but I'm pretending it is' tone. Tonight. You and me. Spilling of guts. No arguing."
I can't help but smile. "Okay, Mom ."
"Damn right. Text me when you get to Dad's?"
"Will do."
"Love you, sis. Can’t wait to get you married this weekend!"
The words hit me like a sledgehammer, and it takes me a breath before I can speak. "Love you too."
Two years ago, Megan had practically vibrated with excitement when I told her about meeting Nathan. She'd grilled me for every detail over coffee—how he looked in his suit, how he'd asked for my number, and whether I thought he might be "the one."
"Finally!" she squealed when I showed her the engagement ring. "Someone who can appreciate how amazing you are!"
My throat tightens. If only she knew how wrong we both were.
I grip the steering wheel tighter until my knuckles turn white. A horn blares as someone cuts me off, but I barely notice.
Mom would have loved Nathan, at least the version of him I met. The charming investment banker who promised to make my fashion dreams come true. But now... now I'm grateful she never got to meet him. Never had to watch her daughter get betrayed by someone who was supposed to love her.
I pull into the driveway of our yellow two-story house, and park behind Freddy’s beat-up Honda Civic.
The sage green paint on the front door is peeling. Another item on my endless to-do list. Mom would hate seeing the house like this—she always made sure everything was perfect, right down to the brass doorknob she polished every Sunday.
The key sticks in the lock like it always does. I have to jiggle it just right—up and to the left, then a sharp turn. The door creaks open, and I'm hit with the musty smell that's become a regular fixture in this house for the last six years.
"Dad?" I call out, stepping inside. "It's Lacey."
A thump comes from upstairs, followed by the sound of drawers being hastily shut. My stomach drops. I know that sound.
"Well, if it isn't Mom's favorite charity case." Freddy rushes down the stairs. He's wearing a wrinkled hoodie that looks like he slept in it, and there's a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
I scan the living room as I drop my purse on the entry table. "Where's Dad?"
"He's in the kitchen." Freddy grips the railing tightly. "You don't need to check up on him."
"Get out of my way," I push past him towards the kitchen, my voice hard. "Dad?"
The kitchen looks like a war zone: dishes stacked like precarious towers, crusty plates with molding food, and sticky spots on the counter that'll take hours to clean.
And in the middle of it all is Dad, sitting in stained clothing and staring at a cold cup of coffee.
"Dad?" My voice cracks. "Have you eaten anything?"
He looks up, his mouth drawn in a line. He hasn’t said a single word for over a year now. The doctors say he may never speak again as his dementia worsens.
I shoot a glare at Freddy, who's followed me into the kitchen. "What the hell have you been doing this whole time?"
"I had things to take care of." He crosses his arms.
"Like pawning off more of Mom's jewelry?"
"Shut the fuck up, Lacey McKinney. She was my mom, not yours."
The words hit like a physical blow. My hands shake as I start gathering dishes, trying to hide how much that stings. But he's right.
McKinney. Not Huang.
The name on my birth certificate, from parents who didn't want me. The name that marks me as different in every family photo, at every school event, and in every conversation whenever someone asks about my "real" family.
Each time I look at the family photos on the wall at Dad's house, I can't help but notice how I stand out—the only blonde in a family whose hair is jet black.
The worst part is, after Mom passed from her battle with cancer, Freddy’s words started to feel real. When he accuses me that I don't belong, I hear that little voice in my head agreeing with him. Maybe if they hadn't adopted me, they would have had more money for Mom's treatments. Maybe Dad wouldn't have gotten so stressed that his dementia started getting worse.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
Walking over to the sink, I turn the water on, and start putting dishes inside. Water splashes my blouse, but I barely notice.
"If you’re not going to help, Freddy." I grip the edge of the sink, not turning around. "Then get out."
“Don’t tell me what to do in my fucking house.” Freddy's voice drips with contempt.
"If it's your house, then do your part and help clean it!” I spin around, water dripping from my hands. “Help Dad. Fix him a meal. Change him into some clean clothes. Spend some time with him, instead of coming here to steal whatever the fuck isn't bolted down to pay for your gambling fix."
“Yeah that’s what I thought.” Freddy sneers, and that’s when I realize my lips are still pressed in a line.
I didn’t actually say a damn thing at him…
I just stood there, staring, and imagined myself yelling.
“Two years you’ve been fucking that banker, and not a single goddamn penny to show for it.” He starts heading for the door. “I don’t know what the fuck he sees in you. Maybe he just likes having a fucking doormat to wipe his shoes on when he comes home at night.”
Freddy always knows how to hurt me, even if he doesn’t know the full truth.
“Don’t you ever talk to me like that again, Lacey," he spits as he rips the front door open. "He's not your father."
"At least I treat him like one!" I yell, for real this time.
But it’s too late.
The front door slams so hard the windows rattle. Through the kitchen window, I watch Freddy storm to his car and peel out of the driveway.
Once I calm myself down with a few deep breaths, I walk over the fridge, grab a couple of eggs, and bring a small pot of chicken broth to boil.
My hands shake slightly as I whisk them into the steaming chicken broth, watching golden ribbons form in the clear liquid. The familiar motions ground me: crack, whisk, pour in a slow stream, just like Mom taught me.
"Here you go, Dad." I set the bowl of egg drop soup in front of him. "Careful, it's hot."
Dad eats in silence. When he’s done, he sets his spoon down, and studies my face with that same concerned look he used to give me when I was little.
Even with his memory slipping away, he can still read me like an open book.
"I'm fine, Dad." I swallow hard against the lump in my throat and answer his questioning silence. "I’m just tired. I've had a rough morning. If you’re done eating, let’s get you into some clean clothes."
He lets me guide him up the stairs, one step at a time, watching me with concern in his eyes as I help him change. Then, I bring him back down into the living room, sit him on the couch in sight of the kitchen, and start cleaning.
Despite my efforts, a tear falls silently on a plate, and another follows. Soon they're streaming down my face, dripping onto the dishes I'm trying to clean. But I don't dare make a sound as I cry.
I grip the edge of the sink, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Everything hurts. Nathan's betrayal, Freddy's words, Dad's silence, and the constant reminder of Mom's absence. It all crashes over me like a wave, and I can't hold it back anymore.
I want to bawl my eyes out—to scream and cry and shout that it's not fair. But I can't.
It doesn't take long for the dishes to finally be done, each one dried and put away where Mom used to keep them. My hands are wrinkled and raw from the hot water, and that's when I start on the rest of the kitchen.
I scrub every surface until my arms ache, working methodically from one end of the kitchen to the other like Mom taught me. The familiar scent of lemon cleaner fills the air as I tackle layers of built-up grime, letting the mindless work numb everything else away.
By noon, the kitchen's clean, and I take a seat next to dad on the couch. Despite my best efforts, my eyes close from exhaustion.
"Maybe I just enjoy arguing."
"Or maybe," Vadim's voice echoes in my ears. "You just enjoy me."
"In case you want to continue not counting at Vorobyov's, zvyozdochka."
My eyes fly open, and I realize my heart is racing. What the hell is wrong with me? What am I doing thinking about a stranger when my whole life is falling apart?
But he wasn't just any stranger. The way he looked at me, like he could see right through my brave face to the mess underneath...
The silence presses in all around me. I need to talk to someone before I explode, before all these thoughts and feelings consume me whole.
My fingers move across my phone screen almost of their own accord, and I type out a quick message to Megan.
I need to tell you something.
Her response is immediate.
What happened?
I take a deep breath and start typing.