Chapter 22
The drive was a featureless black ribbon, the sky empty except for the occasional glow of refineries and the white glares of empty gas stations.
Even my thoughts ran flat—no suspense, no trembling within, no excitement whatsoever.
Just the certainty of knowing exactly what would happen at the other end of this road.
Duke’s house looked exactly as it did the last time I’d been here eighteen years ago, dashing in and out to deliver my IOU to Alaric and leaving with his calculus notes.
Just like then, the Christmas lights lining the eaves blinked on and off with each other in perfect unison.
Garlands and wreaths and elaborately staged displays, a cornucopia of tasteful Christmas perfection, was completely lost out here, on this house that no one visited.
I parked at the base of the front walk, pulled my coat closer around me, checked that the printout from the office supply place was still folded and crisp in my pocket, and walked up to the door.
I couldn't help but compare the overwhelming opulence of these decorations to the delightfully cheesy display at Sal and Terri’s two-story bungalow.
Most people probably would have preferred the aesthetic of wealth and “taste,” but I preferred the authenticity of care, comfort, and history.
And you know what? I really like this about myself.
As I approached, I saw the doormat was also quite expensive—a slab of embossed rubber, chicly monogrammed and somehow immune to all the dirt of Texas. I pressed the bell.
It took only ten seconds for someone to answer. A woman opened the door, probably mid-fifties, with streaked hair pulled into a barrette. Her cardigan looked soft and she didn’t recognize me, which was perfect.
I put on my best boardroom smile. “Merry Christmas. Is Duke Weston at home?”
Her face didn’t register anything but a tired, professional interest. “Thank you. Merry Christmas to you. Who may I say is calling?”
“Tell him it’s a representative from Wingspan Ventures, who now owns this house.” I handed her the document I’d just had printed, the signature page facing up.
She took the packet with a shaking hand, mouth parting for a single dry exhale. She scanned the page, then looked back at me, the whites of her eyes wider than before.
I said, “You can keep this copy, or give it to him.”
She nodded, her composure buckling for half a heartbeat, then she motioned me inside. “If you’ll wait here in the entry, I’ll get Mr. Weston for you.”
The woman disappeared up the hallway, the sound of her footsteps a soft percussion against the marble.
I stood in the entryway, hands folded, and took in the full view.
It was all exactly as I remembered. The floors were a sheen of undisturbed polish, the banisters a parade of gold-leafed rococo that looked more like spray paint than craftsmanship, and every surface gleamed with more and more and more gold leaf.
On a credenza by the stairs, a nativity scene made from gold hued metal crowded for space with three crystal bowls, each overflowing with foil-wrapped candies. I frowned at the display. Who would eat them?
Lifting my attention, I did spot something new. The walls were now lined with photos of Duke, smiling for a rotating cast of business associates, minor celebrities, and the occasional college football star.
As a kid, I used to covet this house. It was the yardstick by which every apartment, duplex, and subsidized rental was measured and inevitably found wanting.
I used to imagine myself, seven or eight, stepping across this marble threshold to be greeted by my real family, one who wanted me.
But now that I was here, all I saw was a mausoleum filled with expensive junk.
A minute passed, maybe two. I heard voices in a side room, then the unmistakable sound of someone yelling. Even through two walls, the voice echoed. The footsteps that followed were louder, and the resonance of them rebounded off every expensive surface in the house.
Duke rounded the corner. He looked, for all the world, like he’d just been printed out of an old copy of Forbes: salt-and-pepper hair precisely styled, jaw tight as a movie star’s, a tan that seemed impossible in December.
He wore a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms. He was trimmer than I remembered, but there was still the subtle bloat of someone who drank alcohol to excess.
He didn’t recognize me, which I’d predicted and, in a way, hoped for. His eyes flicked to the paperwork in my hand, then back to my face, scanning for a chink in the armor.
I smiled, showing none of my teeth. He didn’t smile back.
Alaric was right. I felt sorry for him. I wished I’d known years ago that Duke Weston had already done more damage to himself than I—even at my most vengeful—could ever hope to do.
But I wasn’t feeling vengeful anymore.
“Now listen here, missy,” he said, jabbing a finger at the copy in my hand, “no one owns this house but me, and you are not from West Central Bank, who holds my mortgage, so I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but you need to leave before I call the police.”
I didn’t flinch. “Please. Call the police. I’ll wait.”
He blinked, unaccustomed to being defied.
“And West Central doesn’t own your debt anymore, my company does.”
He frowned, recalibrating. “Who are you?”
“That doesn’t matter. But feel free to call West Central and confirm the information I’ve provided.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “What the hell do you want?”
“My company is calling in your debt, Mr. Weston. If you can’t pay all three of your mortgages by the end of the month—all of which we own—then you’ll be evicted.”
His face twisted, a slow-motion collapse of dignity and bluster. “Now hold on a minute. Do you know who my son is?”
I looked him in the eye. “I don’t believe you have any sons, Mr. Weston.”
He went red, the color rising in his cheeks like bad sunburn. “I do have sons, two of them.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Are they here? It is Christmas Day, after all.”
He hesitated, then looked away, just for a second. When he looked back, his face was a master class in forced composure.
I went on, feeling compelled to say this, if only once, “Even though my company is the one who owns everything now, including this house, I didn’t take anything from you. You lost it all, but you did it to yourself. No one is responsible but you. In truth, I feel sorry for you.”
I could see my words confused him. Even so, there was a tremor in his jaw, a white-knuckled balling of his fists. He looked at me and I witnessed the faintest glimmer of doubt.
He said, “Who the hell are you to feel sorry for me? I don’t need your pity. You’re the one in here stealing an old man’s home!”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but let me know if you decide to change. It’s not too late. It’s never too late. Someone helped me, and I think it’s only fair that I pay it forward. So, if you want help—genuinely want help—let me know. My card is with the paperwork.”
“What?! Change what?”
I took a breath, almost finished with my speech. “Regardless, wherever you end up, I hope you do learn how to be a good person and apologize to the people you’ve hurt. But don’t change just for others, do it for yourself. For your future. You still have a future, you know. You’re still here.”
I let the silence fill the entryway, and then I turned for the door, my heels echoing on the marble. I looked back once, taking in the gold and the glass and the endless expanse of empty, beautiful nothing.
A house was just bricks unless you put people in it. Without a community to give it a pulse, all you possessed was a vault for things you couldn’t take with you.
I faced Duke one more time. “Sincerely, I hope you figure out what’s important before it’s too late. Anyway. Good luck to you. And merry Christmas, Mr. Weston.”
He tried to speak, but the sound came out broken. I turned away.
And I left.
* * *
The West Texas sky had faded from dirty dishwater to the pale, violent orange of a December sunset. I was still driving. Not "going somewhere," not "leaving," but literally just driving.
The Hill Country highways had a way of doubling back on themselves—looping, then feinting, then spitting you out at the same strip of dead convenience stores and water towers, like a snake eating its own tail.
There weren't any good landmarks unless you counted the periodic outbreaks of graffiti or the red-dirt driveways branching off to nowhere.
The house I was searching for was out here, tucked behind a gate with no address and several hundred acres of privacy.
I'd been up and down the same twelve-mile stretch of this two-lane road at least six times, the first pass with confidence, the next two with increasing frustration, all the ones after with creepy despair. I kept telling myself that Brad had only made it look easy because he’d done it so many times.
The sun had already slid so far west it was threatening to escape the time zone entirely. My phone vibrated, a single, useless blip, the battery icon down to its last red millimeter.
I approached the turn I thought was the correct one—again—when I realized I'd passed it a quarter-mile back.
This U-turn was logistically precarious, as there was barely enough shoulder to avoid being rear-ended should a car come up from behind at fill speed.
I pulled off anyway, dust pluming up in the rearview, then just sat there, car idling, feeling the quiet throb of my own disappointment.
So much for grand gestures.
Perhaps I’d never actually paid attention to the path Brad followed to Alric’s house. I gripped the wheel, hard, and tried to focus on the here and now.
Fine. If I was going to find the house, I would probably have to creep up and down these roads for a few more hours, but reduce my speed significantly.
Maybe I should call Alar—