Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
NAOMI
I set the salad on my kitchen counter and stare at it like it’s a bomb I need to defuse.
Brandon made it himself.
For me.
He kind of cooked for me.
I take a fork from the drawer, my fingers trembling. I’m not even hungry, but…
My stomach grumbles.
Fine. A bit. A bit will be okay.
I stab a few leaves slick with dressing, and bring it to my mouth. The first bite is heaven and hell. Creamy, garlicky, perfect.
Another forkful. Then another. Crisp romaine, succulent chicken, the sharp bite of parmesan.
Of course, it’s perfect.
Why doesn’t he ever give me a reason to hate him?
As furious as I am with him, as much as I want to hate him… I crave his company. His touch. His laugh and his stupid jokes.
I take another bite, then another, my resolve crumbling with each forkful. Before I know it, half the salad is gone. I drop the fork with a clatter.
It doesn’t come.
I don’t have the urge to run to the bathroom and rid myself of it.
The first time in three days.
This is good.
But I have to do better. Be stronger. For him. For us.
I just hope he has the patience to wait for me to figure out how.
Because I don’t want to be his burden. I want to be a person he can lean on, a person he can tell about his restaurant… and not this selfish thing I am right now.
Not like my mother.
I need to do better than her.
My phone lights up.
Speak of the Devil.
“Mom?”
“Naomi, darling.” Her voice carries that sickly sweet tone that makes my skin crawl. “You need to come home right now.”
I squint at my phone’s clock. “It’s almost midnight.” After working nonstop all day, the last thing I need is my mother’s presence.
“I’m well aware of the time.”
“Can’t it wait till morning? I’m?—”
“It cannot.” The sweetness is completely gone. “You will come home. Now.”
“I’m not a kid. You can’t order me around like that.”
“This isn’t about your age, Naomi.” She pauses, and I hear her take a measured breath. “Please.”
I blink, my grip tightening on the phone. Please? That’s new. The word sounds foreign coming from her mouth. Lydia Smith doesn’t say please. She demands, she manipulates, she guilt-trips. But she doesn’t ask nicely.
Never.
“Naomi.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“What’s wrong? Did something happen to Dad? Mykel?” Anne? No, if it would be Anne, my mother would probably celebrate.
“Nothing happened to your father or brother. They’re both on a business trip.” Mom’s voice steadies, but something’s off. Like she’s forcing herself to sound normal. “Just come home. Now.”
“Mom, it’s late. I have work tomorrow.”
“This is more important than work.”
I rub my temples. The salad sits half-eaten on my counter, a reminder of Brandon and everything else I’m trying to process. “Can you at least tell me what this is about?”
“Not over the phone.” She lowers her voice. “Please, Naomi.”
That ‘please’ again. It sends a chill down my spine. I’ve never heard her like this, uncertain, almost afraid.
My mind flashes to that phone call I overheard about bodyguards. To the garage years ago.
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
“Make it fifteen.”
The call ends.
Part of me wants to text Brandon, tell him where I’m going. But what would I say? ‘Hey, my mom’s acting weird and I’m scared’?
No. This is family business.
And he has enough problems of his own.
I grab my keys and purse, pausing at the door—shit. The salad. I hurry back, shove it into the fridge, and head out. Luckily, I don’t feel the need to purge. It’s like his food has this magic power, but my stomach churns anyway as I head to my parent’s house.
In the driver’s seat, I hesitate, then pull out my phone.
Naomi: Can I come by later?
Blake: You’re always welcome.
Blake: Everything okay?
Naomi: I don’t know. My mom wants to see me.
Blake: I’ll wait.
I set my phone down.
What could be so urgent that my mother, Lydia Smith, queen of composure, sounds rattled?
Only one way to find out.
The house I grew up in feels different at night with shadows stretching across marble floors, family photos watching from the walls like silent judges.
“Mom?”
“In here.” Her voice drifts from the living room.
The lights are dimmed, casting everything in a soft amber glow. My mother sits on the leather couch, back straight as a rod. Picture perfect.
Except.
She looks up at me with a forced smile, her fingers twisting the gold necklace at her throat. Once. Twice. Three times. “Sit down, darling.”
“What’s going on?” I remain standing.
“Naomi. My lovely daughter.” She rises, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her silk robe. “I love you. You know that, right?”
Ice spreads through my veins. “What is this about?”
“I want you to understand.” She reaches for me with trembling hands, but I flinch away. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“You said we would never talk about it.”
“Clara had everything.” My mother’s perfect mask cracks, revealing something ugly underneath. “The house, David’s love, Anne’s devotion. Even you. You adored her more than me. More than your own mother.”
“She was kind to me.” Clara was always kind to Mykel and me, even if we were the children of the woman who stole her husband.
“Kind? She was trying to steal you from me.” Her fingers twist her necklace harder. “And now history is repeating itself. Anne’s getting everything again. The company shares, David’s attention, that painting.”
The salad I ate earlier feels like lead. “Mom, please.”
“You remember that night, don’t you?” Her eyes lock onto mine, searching.
The garage floods my senses instantly—the sharp smell of oil, the cold concrete under my knees, the scraping of metal against metal. Mom’s frantic movements in the shadows.
“I did what I had to do.” She reaches for me, and this time, I’m too frozen to move away. Her fingers caress my cheek. “For us. For you and Mykel. I gave you everything.”
“You gave me guilt.” Every time I look at Anne, every time I smell cinnamon, every time I try to eat. “Do you know what that’s done to me?”
“You’re stronger for it.” Mom’s eyes soften, a real smile appearing on her lips. “Everything I did made you stronger.”
My throat closes up. “No. It broke me.”
“You are strong. I know you’ll be fine.” Her eyes flick between mine, then briefly over my shoulder. “Because you take after me. Doing what you have to to survive.”
I stare at her, this woman who gave birth to me, who I’ve spent my whole life trying to please. Every purge, every binge, every moment of self-hatred, they all trace back to her. To that night in the garage. To the choice she forced on me.
“You’re insane,” I say.
“And you’re everything I wanted you to be.” Her hand drops. “Do you love me?”
Eight-year-old me would have said yes without hesitation. She loved her mother unconditionally.
But now?
I look at her perfectly manicured nails, her immaculate silk robe, the gold necklace Dad gave her when Mykel was born. Her symbol of finally belonging.
“You made me like you,” I whisper. “Broken. Unable to eat. Unable to trust.” Her gift to me.
She beams at me like I’ve given her a compliment. “We’re survivors, darling.”
Survivors. Is that what we are? Or are we just broken people breaking others? I think of Anne, of Harry, of Clara’s kindness, of the lives destroyed that night. Of Brandon, trying so hard to help me heal while he gets destroyed in the process.
The truth burns in my throat.
I do love her.
That’s the worst part. Even knowing what she did, even seeing how she shaped me into this damaged version of herself, some part of me still craves her approval. Still wants to make her proud. Still wants to be loved by her.
And I hate myself for it.
A laugh bubbles up, hysterical and raw.
“Naomi, please. Say something.”
I stare at my hands. “I don’t know how not to love you.”
“I need you to forgive me.” She reaches for them. “For everything.”
The pieces click into place. This whole conversation, the vulnerability, the confessions, and the ‘please’, wasn’t about me at all.
It was about her.
Her guilt.
Her conscience.
Her need for absolution.
I jerk my hands away. “That’s what this is about? You don’t care what keeping that secret did to me. You just want to clear your conscience.”
“I’m trying to make things right.”
“Anne lost her mother. Her brother. I can barely eat without throwing up. And you want to make it right with a midnight confession?”
“I’m your mother. Don’t I deserve forgiveness?”
“The only one who can give you forgiveness is Anne.” I clench my fists. “Not me. Not Dad. Not even God himself. Only Anne.”
Mom nods. For once, she looks her age, the lines around her mouth more profound, and the shadows under her eyes darker. “I tried. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me one day.”
I need to leave before I completely break down. I whirl around and?—
A thud. “It’s not your fault.”
Tears roll down my cheeks one by one. The words—it’s not your fault—echo through the room, through my bones, through every broken piece of me.
“You were just a child.” Mom’s voice cracks. “A baby. My baby.”
More tears fall. I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even breathe properly, the weight of those words pinning me in place.
“I made you keep that secret.” Her voice breaks further. “I did that to you. Not you. Never you.”
The tears come faster. How many nights have I spent in front of the toilet, punishing myself for what happened? How many times have I looked at Anne and felt the guilt eat me alive?
It’s not your fault.
Four simple words. They should fix everything. They should heal the broken parts, should make the guilt disappear, should stop the constant need to purge.
But they don’t.
Because even as Mom’s broken voice washes over me, even as she finally gives me the absolution I’ve craved since I was eight years old, I know it’s too late.
The damage is done.
To Anne. To Clara. To Harry.
To me.
“Goodbye, mom.” My legs move on their own accord, carrying me toward the front door.
My mind is blank. Not able to form a coherent thought. Logic. Anything.
I open the door and get out, slamming it shut behind me.
BANG.
The sound freezes me mid-step, and I slowly turn back.
That wasn’t the door.
No. No, no, no.
I rush back, my hands shaking so badly I can barely get the key in the lock. “Come on, come on…” Finally, it clicks and I burst through. “Mom? MOM!”
Silence.
I race back to the living room. “Mom, where are you?”
The metallic scent hits me first.
And then I see her. Crumpled on the carpet. Dark liquid spreads around her head like some fucked-up halo.
“Mom?”
She doesn’t move.
I fall to my knees, the blood soaking into my jeans as I crawl toward her. “Mom, please…” I reach out to touch her but stop short. “Mom?”
Her eyes stare at the ceiling, glassy and empty. A ragged hole marks the side of her temple, and the gun lies, sleek and black, inches from her limp fingers.
A choked sound escapes my throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“No! Please.”
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she wakes up and tells me this is all some sick joke.
It is, right?
My hands are stained red with her blood.
She’s gone.
My mother is dead.
I gather her into my arms, cradling her head against my chest. Her blood smears across my shirt, my hands, my face.
And I start to laugh. Great, gasping guffaws that shake my whole body.
It eventually fades, replaced by a hollow emptiness that settles deep in my bones like the blood on my skin. My legs go numb, and my arms ache from holding her, but I can’t let go.
Can’t do anything but sit here, rocking slightly, my mother’s head lolling against my chest.
I stare at her closed eyes, willing them to blink, to show me the brown color I inherited from her, to do anything. Accuse me.
But they remain still. Dead.
Just like her.
A hysterical giggle bubbles up my throat again. It’s just so fucking perfect, isn’t it?
“I hate you.” My voice is hoarse from laughing or crying or screaming. I don’t even know anymore. “I hate you for doing this to me.”
The grand exit no one saw coming.
Except maybe she did. Maybe this was her plan all along. Confess her sins, make me say I still love her, then blow her brains out and leave me to deal with the fallout.
Classic Mom move.
A sound penetrates the fog in my brain. Footsteps?
“Hellooo?” A voice echoes through the house, distorted like I’m hearing it from underwater. Familiar. “The door was open. Anyone home? NayNay?”
Blake?
“You butt-called me.” Footsteps approach, growing louder, more real. “I swear if this—” The footsteps stop. There’s a sharp inhale, then—”What the fuck…”
I look up. Blake stands in the doorway, her eyes wide open as she takes in the scene before her. Mom’s body. The blood. Me, covered in it.
“She’s dead.” The words feel strange on my tongue, like they belong to someone else’s story. Someone else’s tragedy. “She—B? Is this real?”
“Naomi…” She takes a tentative step forward. “I… Fuck. I’m so sorry. We need to get rid—” She kneels down next to me, her hand hovering uncertainly over my shoulder. “Did you?”
I look down at my mother’s slack face, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead. Her skin is already cooling beneath my fingers. “She did it herself.”
“NayNay, honey, I need you to let go of her, okay?”
Let go? How can I let go? If I let go, she’ll be gone for real.
“Come on.” Blake’s hands are on mine, gently trying to pry me away. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
My clothes are stiff with dried blood, crusted beneath my fingernails, and smeared across my arms.
“She’s gone,” I whisper. “She’s really gone.”
“I know, babe.” Her voice is gentle, but her hands are firm as she finally manages to separate me from my mother’s body. “I’m so sorry.”
The loss of contact snaps something inside me. I start to shake, violent tremors wracking my body. “I can’t, I can’t.”
“Shh, I’ve got you.” She pulls me against her chest, not caring about the blood transfer. “I’ve got you.”
I clutch at her shirt, burying my face in her neck. She smells like cigarettes and expensive perfume.
“It’s okay.” Her hand strokes my hair. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I stare at the wall, my mind blank. Empty. The same spot I’ve been staring at for… hours? Days? Time stopped making sense after the police questioned me, Dad’s breakdown on the phone, and Mykel’s broken voice. No, it couldn’t have been that long.
I just came home.
Blake’s thumb traces circles on my hand. She hasn’t left my side since she found me.
“You need to eat something,” she says.
Food is the last thing I can handle right now.
The doorbell rings.
She squeezes my hand before getting up.
Seconds later, Brandon bursts in and drops to his knees in front of me, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch. “I’m here.”
I don’t want him here.
I’m not ready.