Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
NAOMI
T he porch light of my childhood home casts long shadows across the manicured lawn, making the house look like something out of a horror movie.
My stomach churns. “Maybe we should?—”
“Nope.” He kills the engine. “No maybes.”
My fingers tighten around the seatbelt. “Brandon, you don’t understand. The last time I was here?—”
Blood. The gun. My mother’s lifeless eyes.
The air inside the car suddenly feels too thin.
His hand finds mine across the console. “You can’t avoid this place forever.”
Through the window, I catch glimpses of movement, Thomas setting the table, probably.
“What if I’m not ready?”
“Then we leave.” His thumb traces circles on my palm. “But you’re stronger than you think, cupcake.”
I take a deep breath, inhaling the leather scent of his car. “You’ll stay?”
“Right beside you.” He squeezes my hand. “Unless you want me to wait in the car like a chauffeur.”
A laugh escapes me, surprising us both. “Don’t you dare.”
He steps out first, coming around to open my door. The evening air hits my face, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and Thomas’s famous pot roast.
One foot in front of the other, I tell myself. Brandon’s presence at my back feels like armor as we approach the front door.
Before I can reach for the doorbell, the door swings open, Thomas stands there, his weathered face breaking into a gentle smile.
“Ms. Naomi.” His eyes flick to Brandon, then back to me. “Your father’s in his study.”
Of course, he is. Some things never change.
Anne stands in the hallway, her eyes wide, uncertain. “You came.”
“Hey, sis.” My voice turns high-pitched. “What are you doing here?”
She pulls me into a hug that’s too tight, too desperate. I stand there, arms at my sides, breathing in her familiar perfume. “I heard you were coming. First time since… I wanted to check on you both.”
“Naomi.” Landon’s deep voice carries from behind Anne. “Good to see you both.”
“It’s cold. Come in.” She ushers us inside. “Mykel’s running late. As usual.”
Every surface is pristine like that night never happened. Like there wasn’t blood?—
Brandon leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “Remember the deal?”
I nod. If I have to purge, I’ll tell Brandon.
“Good girl.” His lips graze my temple, fleeting but warm. “Let’s get this shit show started.”
My father emerges, pausing at the sight of us, his expression unreadable. “Naomi. Brandon.”
Brandon’s hand finds the small of my back. “Mr. Smith.”
“I trust you’re both well.” Dad straightens his tie. “Thomas has prepared dinner.”
The dining room table stretches before us, each place setting perfect, each crystal glass catching the light. Ten chairs. One empty now, where she used to sit.
“Water with lemon, Ms.?” Thomas appears at my elbow.
I nod, throat tight. The crystal feels too delicate in my hand as if shattering if I grip it too hard.
“So,” Anne breaks the silence, “Brandon, I heard you’re looking at restaurant locations?”
His fingers drum against his thigh. “Yes, actually. Found a promising spot downtown.”
“Another restaurant?” Dad’s eyebrows lift. “I thought that venture had… concluded.”
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
Brandon’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays steady. “Different location, different concept. Sometimes, you have to fail before you succeed.”
“Indeed.” Dad takes a careful sip of wine. “Though some might argue once is enough.”
“Dad—” I start.
“It’s fine.” Brandon’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I appreciate the concern, Mr. Smith. But I’ve learned from my mistakes.”
Under the table, my hand finds Brandon’s knee, squeezing. He covers my hand with his, warm and solid.
The front door slams, and Mykel’s voice carries through the house. “Sorry, I’m late! Traffic was a bitch—oh, shit, sorry Thomas.”
Just like that, the tension breaks, and Mykel bursts in, all smiles and energy, dropping kisses on cheeks and slapping Brandon’s shoulder like they’re old friends.
“Now,” Thomas announces, “shall we begin with the soup?”
“Yes, please,” my father says before turning back to my brother. “Where’s Madison?”
“Parent emergency. She sends her regards and all that formal crap.” He winces. “Again, sorry, Thomas.”
“That’s alright, Mr. Mykel.” Thomas disappears into the kitchen.
Seconds later, the soup arrives and, as expected, makes my stomach clench. Brandon’s hand should ground me, but it feels distant.
“Speaking of Madison,” Mykel says between spoonfuls, “we’re moving in together. In a few days.”
“Already?” Dad’s spoon pauses halfway to his mouth. “Didn’t you want to wait after?—”
“It’s been months, Dad.”
“Hardly enough time to really think it over.”
“I think it’s wonderful,” Anne cuts in, her voice carrying that forced brightness she uses at charity events. “Madison’s lovely.”
“She is,” Mykel says.
I watch the ripples in my bowl, remembering how Mom used to lecture about proper soup etiquette. Spoon away from you, never blow on it, small sips only.
“Naomi.” Dad’s voice snaps me back. “You’ve hardly touched your soup.”
“The consommé’s excellent, Thomas,” Brandon says. “Perfectly clarified.”
Thomas beams from his position by the wall. “Thank you, sir. An old family recipe.”
“You would know about recipes,” Dad mutters.
“Actually,” I find my voice, “Brandon’s new restaurant concept sounds promising.”
Dad’s eyes narrow. “You’re involved in this venture?”
“I’m help—Yes.” The words come out stronger than I feel. “My expertise in financial planning could be valuable.”
“I see.” He dabs his napkin against his lips. “And you believe this is… wise? Given recent events?”
The room goes silent except for the soft clink of Mykel’s spoon against his bowl.
“Recent events,” Brandon repeats, his voice dangerously calm, “have nothing to do with Naomi’s professional judgment.”
“Don’t they?” Dad sets down his napkin. “Emotional instability often affects decision-making. Like abruptly moving in with a girlfriend or starting a new business.”
“David,” Anne warns, but he continues.
“I’m merely concerned about my children’s wellbeing.”
“Then maybe.” I let out a small huff. “You should ask us about it instead of talking around us.”
His eyes narrow at me. “I see your mother’s death hasn’t improved your attitude.”
“My attitude?” My spoon clatters against the bowl, soup sloshing over the pristine tablecloth. “Let’s talk about it, Dad. Let’s talk about how you barely looked at me since that night. How you never once asked me if I was okay. If I could sleep at night. If I could still breathe without seeing?—”
Dad’s face hardens. “This isn’t the time.”
“When is the time?” My voice is a fragile thread, unraveling everything I feel. “Between board meetings? Or should I schedule an appointment with your secretary?”
“You’re being hysterical.”
“My mother killed herself in this house. She—” My chest heaves. My vision blurs. “And you’re worried about my attitude?”
“Calm down,” Dad commands. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Thomas appears with the main course, freezes at the tension, then quietly retreats.
“Perhaps we should take a moment,” Mykel speaks up, “and I’m not doing this sober.”
“You’re not an alcoholic,” Dad says.
“Alcohol wouldn’t help either way,” I say, meeting Mykel’s concerned gaze. “Nothing helps when he”—I wave my hand at Dad—”pretends everything’s fine. Like she didn’t?—”
“That’s enough.” Dad’s voice carries that familiar edge of authority. “We’re not discussing this at dinner.”
“When then?” Anne asks. “When do we discuss anything real in this family? Naomi’s right. We sit here, pretending everything’s normal. Like we didn’t lose two mothers in this house.”
Dad’s knuckles whiten around his wine glass. “I said enough.”
“You always say enough.” The words spill out of me. “When it’s uncomfortable or messy or real. But guess what? It doesn’t make it go away. She killed herself right there.” I point toward the living room. “And you haven’t even asked why.”
“Because I know.” His voice cuts through the air. “She was unstable. Just like you’re proving yourself to be.”
“That’s a lie,” I spit the words out. “And you know it, too.”
My father’s voice drops low, dangerous. “What exactly are you implying?” It has that edge I remember from childhood, the one that used to make us all freeze. But there’s something different now. That familiar muscle in his jaw ticks faster than I’ve ever seen it, and his perfectly pressed suit seems to suffocate him.
“Are you going to tell Anne the truth, or should I?”
My father’s face drains of color. “You won’t.”
“I was there.” I whip my head toward my sister, curling my hands into fists. “In the garage. The night Clara and Harry died. The night you almost?—”
“Enough!” The glass of my father lands so hard on the table that the family portrait behind me rattles. “The soup is getting cold.”
Mykel reaches for Dad’s shoulder. “Dad, this?—”
“Stay out of this,” He snaps at him.
I’ve never seen him that angry at Mykel. However, that anger is probably more directed at me, and Mykel is just the one getting in the way.
I meet my father’s eyes, challenging, daring him to stop me.
His jaw works. “Naomi, if you say another word?—”
“Mom killed your mother.”
The words hang, razor-sharp and irreversible.
No one speaks.
A silence so thick it feels like drowning.
My father glares at me, nothing new. Anne doesn’t move, Landon’s brows knit together in something unreadable, Mykel plays with his soup, and Brandon looks up at me, concerned.
I force myself to continue. “She sabotaged the car that night. I was there, hiding in the garage, playing with Mykel. I saw her do it.” The words tumble out, unstoppable now—just like the cinnamon buns at the funeral. The only difference is that back then, it was food. Now, it’s my truth. “I was eight. Eight years old, and I watched Mom tamper with the brakes. At first, I didn’t understand, but then—I said nothing. For twenty-one years, I said nothing. Because she was my mom, and I loved her, and I was so fucking scared. She killed herself because she couldn’t bear it anymore.”
Anne’s face is blank, a porcelain mask that reveals nothing. No emotion.
“Nothing happened. You’re delusional,” my father says. “Mykel, your sister is upset. Grieving.”
“You married your wife and son’s murderer.” My voice raises. “You let your daughter grow up thinking it was an accident. Anne wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t?—”
“Stop.” Anne’s whisper cuts through me. “Please.”
Her eyes meet mine, something shifting in their depths, and all the pumped-up rage inside of me deflates a prickle of unease spreading down my spine instead.
“I know,” she says.
The world tilts.
“You… knew?” My voice barely comes out.
She nods, but her expression doesn’t crack.
Oh.
I feel it before I process it, the drop in my stomach, the way my ears start ringing, and the way the air vanishes.
She knew.
The floor tilts beneath me.
Twenty-one years of guilt. Twenty-one years of throwing up memories I couldn’t stomach. Twenty-one years of destroying myself for a secret that wasn’t even a secret.
Oh, God.
My throat burns with bile. The kind that rips you apart from the inside.
She knew. All this time, while I destroyed myself trying to protect her, trying to make up for my silence, she fucking knew.
Every Christmas dinner where, I couldn’t look her in the eye. Every birthday where, I watched her blow out candles, wishing for a mother who’d never come back. Every time I forced myself to throw up because the guilt was eating me alive?—
And she knew.
The cinnamon rolls at the funeral. The way Mom’s hand gripped my arm when I couldn’t stop throwing up in the bushes. “People are watching,” she’d said. But Anne already knew what kind of monster was holding my arm.
My fingers dig into my thighs under the table.
Twenty-one years of therapy. Of fighting my reflection in the mirror. Of hating myself for being complicit in Anne’s pain. And she just… knew?
The laugh that bubbles up tastes like copper. But do I even want to know? What if she’s known since that night? What if I’ve been carrying this burden, destroying myself over a secret that wasn’t even a secret?
Was it all just a waste? A pathetic attempt at redemption for a crime everyone already knew about?
My voice sounds small, foreign.”When?”
Anne’s lips twist into something between a smile and a grimace. “Nothing like thinking you’re dying to clear your conscience. Right, Dad?”
The pieces click into place, Anne’s coldness toward him, the tension at family dinners, and the way she avoided them. The heart attack.
Odd relief crashes through me. It wasn’t all a waste.
Dad’s shoulders slump, the fight draining from him. “I thought I was dying. I couldn’t… I couldn’t take it to my grave.”
“But you could let me carry it?” The words scratch my throat. “Let me think I was the only one who knew? That I was responsible for?—”
“Everything I did… it was to protect this family.” Dad looks old, tired. “I didn’t know you saw. I never knew you were there that night until Lydia died. If I had…”
“If you had what?” I demand. “Would you have told me the truth? Or would you have found another way to keep me quiet?”
“Naomi,” Brandon’s voice is soft against my ear. “Breathe.”
I realize I’m shaking, my chest so tight it hurts. Anne hurries over to me, enveloping me in her arms.
“It’s not your fault,” she whispers. “Please don’t blame yourself.”
“But I?—”
“You were eight. A child. Listen to me.” She hugs me tighter. “What Lydia did, what Dad covered up. That’s on them. Not you.”
“Jesus Christ.” Mykel slaps a hand on his face.
“I’m sorry.” Hot tears trickle down my cheek, dampening Anne’s blouse. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“What’s the point?” Her hand runs up and down my back. “Would it bring Mom back? Harry? Or would it have just destroyed another little girl? I made my peace with it. Or whatever passes for peace in this fucking family. And I wanted you to have it, too.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should’ve told you sooner. I just didn’t?—”
“I love you.” Her voice cracks. “That hasn’t changed.”
I shake my head against her shoulder. “How can you not hate me?”
“For what? Being a terrified child?” She pulls back, her hands framing my face. “I had enough time to process this. To be angry. To grieve.”
“Well,” Mykel says. “This explains… so much.”
Dad clears his throat. “Anne.”
“Don’t.” Her fingers tighten on my cheeks. “You don’t get to speak right now.”
Brandon’s presence hovers behind me, solid and warm.
Dad takes a step toward us, but Landon’s broad frame blocks his path. The movement is subtle, almost casual, but there’s nothing casual about the way Landon’s shoulders are set or how his hands rest at his sides.
“I think,” Landon’s voice carries that quiet authority that makes even board members sit up straight, “you should stay where you are, David.”
Dad’s face flushes. “This is my house!”
“And these are your daughters.” Landon’s tone doesn’t change. “Who you’ve allowed to carry guilt that wasn’t theirs to bear. So right now, you’re going to give them space.”
Brandon’s hand settles on my lower back, and I lean into his touch, grateful for the anchor as Anne’s arms tighten around me.
“I was trying to protect—” Dad starts.
“No,” Landon cuts him off. “You were protecting yourself. There’s a difference.”
The silence stretches, broken only by the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. Dad’s eyes dart between us—me, still wrapped in Anne’s embrace, Brandon’s protective stance behind me, Landon’s immovable presence between us and him—something close to defeat crossing his face.
His shoulders sag, and he sinks back into his chair. “We need to talk about this.”
“Mom would be so proud,” I say.
He points at me. “Don’t you dare bring her into this.”
“Which one? Clara or Lydia?” I ask. “Because, let’s be honest, you failed them both.”
Mykel whispers, “Holy shit.”