I remembered Julian at eleven, pushing me on a swing until I shrieked with laughter. Julian at nineteen, charming every adult in the room. Julian at thirty, standing at Dad’s funeral with one hand on Mom’s shoulder, telling everyone he would look after her now.
I had mistaken that sentence for devotion.
Now I understood it had been a claim.
A possession.
I dressed Mom carefully in soft pajamas from the linen closet, choosing long sleeves so Julian and Chloe would not immediately realize what I had seen. She winced when I lifted her arms. Every wince entered my memory like a nail driven into wood.
“Listen to me,” I whispered. “When we go downstairs, you don’t have to say anything. I’ll handle it.”
She caught my wrist with surprising strength.
“Don’t let them take me away.”
“They won’t.”
Her gaze searched mine, desperate and childlike in a way that made something inside me split open.
I took her hand.
“I promise.”
By the time we came downstairs, Julian was standing in the hallway with his arms crossed.
He looked so much like our father from a distance that, for one foolish second, my heart stumbled. Same height. Same dark brows. Same serious mouth.
But Dad’s eyes had been warm.
Julian’s were cold and calculating.
“What took so long?” he asked.
Chloe appeared behind him, holding a wineglass. “Honestly, Elena, Mom can’t be locked in bathrooms. She panics. We have routines.”
I smiled gently.
“I know. She told me all about your routines.”
Chloe’s smile stiffened.
Julian’s eyes moved to Mom. “What did she tell you?”
Mom’s hand tightened around mine.
I felt her begin to tremble.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I said.
That was the first hook.
Julian blinked. He had expected anger. Accusation. A scene he could later describe as my hysterics. Instead, I gave him calmness, and calmness unsettled guilty people more than rage.
He stepped closer. “Elena, I think it’s time you left.”
“I just got here.”
“And you’ve already upset her.”
Chloe set down her glass with a sharp click. “She was perfectly fine before you came.”
I looked around the house then, really looked.
The antique clock from the foyer was gone. So were the silver-framed photos from the mantel. The Persian runner Dad had bought on their thirtieth anniversary had been replaced by a cheap gray rug. Nothing screamed theft. That was not Chloe’s style.
She had erased my mother tastefully.
Piece by piece.
“Where’s Mom’s ruby brooch?” I asked.
Chloe’s expression flickered.
Julian frowned. “What?”
“The brooch Dad gave her when I was born. She kept it in the blue velvet box upstairs.”
Mom looked at the floor.
Chloe recovered first. “She probably misplaced it. She’s been doing that.”
“Of course.”
