Chapter 1 – May 23, 1993 – Camille
There was nobody around as I quickened my pace down the heavy, Victorian dark oak staircase, my hand sliding down the smooth banister.
The typical hum of the vacuum I had grown accustomed to during my childhood mornings was nonexistent.
I was beginning to convince myself I was the only one in the house, or that I was having a weird out-of-body dream as I roamed the halls of the vacant mansion.
Whatever was happening was not part of the routine, and the eerie, twilight-zone quiet caused my stomach to turn. I rounded the corner to the dining room and peeked my head in.
“Good morning, Camille.” My father greeted me from his seat at the head of the long, antiquated table.
The table was set despite the lack of hired help.
A crystal carafe of water taunted me with its dripping condensation in front of him, alongside matching crystal glasses with intricate designs and ivory-colored plates.
The arrangement of silverware surrounded the plates and glasses laid out before him.
I counted the four lacy placemats, bare of breakfast and serving no purpose other than for show.
My father and my brother had an eerily similar appearance, almost like my dad had skipped over my mother’s genetics and cloned himself to make a son.
However, my father didn’t look as though he had stepped out of a soap opera like Reed did.
He was more of a diplomatic politician—a flawless, pearly-white beam reserved for flashing cameras to capture his good deeds.
His dark hair was graying, but he was aging gracefully and had yet to show a wrinkle.
He could have fooled anyone into thinking he never slept and spent his time in the gym when he wasn’t in an office chair or church pew.
He waved his ring-covered hand over my assigned seat, signaling for me to sit. I did.
“Good morning, Father,” I greeted him as I took my seat, aware I wasn’t dressed for the day ahead.
I held my breath for the verbal berating of my appearance, but it never came.
He had to have noticed I was wearing yesterday’s clothes, plus the fact that I was awake later than usual.
Maybe he had bad news to share. Did someone die?
What if we lost everything? It would explain why there weren’t any servants around, but it seemed too far-fetched.
Not to mention, it would have been enough of a crisis that my father wouldn’t be sitting before me right now.
He’d likely be in his office, taking calls and putting out fires.
The silence between us was loud enough to make my ears bleed.
I wanted to say something—anything—to feel less like I was intruding on my father as he tapped the table impatiently.
His calculating eyes darted to the entrance of the dining room, just as we were graced with my mother’s appearance, saving me from suffocating on all the conversation starters I knew I was not allowed to speak.
She was made up for the day as she took a seat next to my father, as per usual.
She said nothing to acknowledge me. Not even a good morning.
My mother was average. There was nothing stunning about her until her hired group of makeup artists and beauticians fixed her up during the first hour or two of her morning.
Because of this dedication, she was washed-up Hollywood-actress beautiful.
I couldn’t point out one natural thing about her, especially as she aged.
She wore contacts to correct her vision and enough makeup to disguise her aging face, subtracting fifteen years.
She started wearing hair extensions when I was twelve to bring back the wavy curls she had when she was younger—something she would often whine to me about, since I had the same ones but didn’t “care for them properly.” Her heels were custom-made in Milan, not only for the flair of status but to appear taller and less elf-like alongside my father.
My mother’s hair used to be a much lighter shade of brown, but lately she had started dyeing it to hide the gray hairs.
She was a broken vase, glued and polished together to bring life back… but look closely enough, and you could see the cracks underneath the coating. Anyone in their right mind would wonder how someone like her had scored someone like my father.
My mother poured herself a glass of water—another unusual occurrence I couldn’t help but notice, since often a servant would do a small task like that for us.
She didn’t drink from it. She glanced over at me as if she were finally noticing my existence.
Her poker face was agonizing, warning me that something was going on. My gut told me I wouldn’t like it.
Before I could worry about the fact that Reed was not sitting at the table, he slowly entered the dining room.
He was glowing, despite the uncanny offness I was beginning to dissect.
His hair was uncombed, and he didn’t have any gel in it like he normally would on a Sunday morning.
It appeared he had dressed himself, much like I had attempted to.
His effort resulted in a white button-down shirt with the top few buttons undone and unironed slacks.
What made me most uneasy was the twitch of his lips as he focused his attention my way.
His light green eyes showed what I could only assume was somewhere between excitement and a twinkle of amusement.
Whatever was going on, it couldn’t be so bad if my brother didn’t appear disheveled…
but it did confirm everyone at the table knew something I did not.
“Now that we’re all here,” my father began, derailing my train of unfortunate thoughts as Reed pulled the chair out across from me and took a seat, fumbling with the glass in front of him and nearly knocking it over.
His gaze flashed my way quickly before zoning back in on the glass, seeking confirmation that I hadn’t caught the slip.
“I can only imagine you are wondering why our staff isn’t around.
They’ve been sent on paid vacation for the week. ”
Paid vacation? I had never heard of my father allowing that.
I attempted to look over at Reed for some kind of explanation—whether it be a smile, a frown, or an inaudible word—but he wouldn’t make eye contact.
He slowly brought his glass of water to his mouth and took a sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing slowly to the point that I thought he would choke and I’d have to throw myself over the table to perform the Heimlich maneuver.
“The Chambers family has been a dominating force since the Civil War, and our friends and neighbors look to us to uphold the old ways and traditions of our ancestors. We are royalty here. There is a considerable amount of pressure on the two of you to stay out of trouble and do as you’re told.
” My father’s voice was powerful, demanding to be heard.
He would have made an excellent preacher or mayor.
“You’re the next generation. The last of the Chambers.
Because of this, it falls on you to carry the torch and keep our family at the top.
You will do your duty in maintaining our name and presence. ”
I had heard this speech in many variations growing up, mainly because we didn’t have cousins, aunts, or uncles. Our father had two younger brothers who died tragically. One during the Vietnam war and the other was rumored to have taken his life shortly after.
“Our family’s friends are powerful allies, having been by our ancestors’ sides since the beginning.
Your friends are chosen by us to maintain these relations and uphold our standing.
We have always been swift to accommodate these friendships for both of you and have forbidden any contact with outsiders.
That rule will remain. However, it is crucial you both understand that they are not worthy of our name or fortune.
” My mother nodded in agreement, having been silent for the whole speech.
The thought of how these two came to be crossed my forever-churning mind.
Did my father bend the rules when deciding to marry my mother? Would that make them hypocrites?
“Today marks a holy day, as God himself came to us to confirm our noble name and heritage will be preserved.” My father’s voice echoed at a table that had never been this empty, and I shuddered—a “walk on your grave” shudder.
“We follow God’s word and the path he sets for us without question.
Tonight, we will prove to him that our faith is unfaltering.
We will do as he has preached. We will acknowledge his visit to us and do his bidding. ”
My mother reached for my father’s hand, a full, prideful smile spreading across her face as he finished his speech. Reed and I were the only two spectators of a televised script, meant for an audience of thousands.
Reed straightened his back, and his lingering focus on me bred further insecurity. I was lost on what was going on, and I didn’t dare look into his eyes to show it. My father aimed his speech at me, our matching green eyes facing off over the dreadful Victorian table.
“We will continue today as we normally do and further discuss the prophecy of the Lord among friends as we welcome them into our house as guests. We will have one temporary servant tonight provided by the church, and the rest of the week we will be without them.” My father rose from his chair, and my mother did the same, signaling the end of our discussion.
“Breakfast will not be served today. You are both dismissed to get ready. Services will be starting later to respect the Lord’s visit and our special circumstances.
Our temporary servant, Ethan, will assist you. ”
Reed and I moved in sync as we pushed our chairs back and rose to our feet. Reed rushed after our parents, his shoes on the marble tile like a battle cry to my intensifying panic. He was out of sight before I could ask him what he knew.
I was left alone to wonder what was happening—and why my empty, fluttering gut was telling me I was possibly in danger.