The email subject line was short, urgent, manipulative in its simplicity:
We need to see you. It’s life and death.
And despite everything I told myself—despite the boundaries, despite the silence—I felt my stomach clench with old instinct.
Because no matter how toxic someone is, the word dying still reaches into you.
I replied with one sentence.
I’ll come by Saturday.
Part 3
On Saturday morning, I sat in my car outside my parents’ house for ten minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles went pale. The neighborhood looked smaller than I remembered, like the houses had shrunk while I’d grown up. The paint on the siding was duller. The lawn was patchier. Even the air felt heavier.
Then I noticed the driveway.
Two cars sat there like trophies: Clara’s brand-new Porsche and Michael’s pristine Mercedes, both polished to a shine that screamed money. The sight hit me like a slap. If this was truly life and death, they had an interesting way of prioritizing.
I forced myself out of the car and walked up the steps. My mother opened the door before I knocked, like she’d been watching through the curtains.