Chapter 11 - The Knock on the Door
The crisp air of mid-January whipped against the windows of our Columbus apartment, rattling the loose glass pane in the kitchen just enough to remind us that winter in Ohio was far from forgiving. It had been nearly a month since our quiet, pajama-clad Christmas—a holiday that still felt less like a celebration and more like a miraculous survivor’s reunion. Frank was currently at the kitchen counter, elbows deep in flour as he tried, with varying degrees of success, to recreate the burnt-sugar cookies he’d brought us last month. Ellie sat on a stool beside him, her face dusted white like a tiny, flour-covered ghost, giggling uncontrollably as Frank tried to balance a lump of dough on the tip of his nose.
I watched them from the dining table, a half-graded stack of high school English essays sitting forgotten in front of me. Life had taken on a new, steady rhythm. The suffocating weight of Helen’s expectations had evaporated, replaced by the warm, chaotic melody of our own making. Paige and Scott stopped by almost every weekend, bringing takeout, gossip, and an infectious brand of sibling camaraderie that Frank had missed out on for the better part of a decade.
"More sprinkles, Uncle Frank! More!" Ellie demanded, pointing a floury finger at the open container.
"If I add any more sprinkles, kiddo, this cookie is going to achieve structural sentience and walk right off the pan," Frank laughed, his voice rich and relaxed—a sound that used to be strangled out of him every time his mother's caller ID flashed on his phone.
Then, the sharp, authoritative rap of knuckles against our apartment door cut through the domestic warmth.
Three sharp knocks. Pause. Two more.
It was a rhythm I would know anywhere. It was the precise, demanding cadence of someone who believed the entire world owed them an audience.
The laughter in the kitchen died instantly. Frank froze, his hand hovering over the baking sheet with a dusting of flour frozen in the air. Paige, who had been sprawled across the sofa reading a magazine, sat up straight, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.
"Nobody answer it," Paige whispered fiercely, swinging her legs off the couch. "If we pretend we're dead, maybe they'll go away."
"You can't hide from a subpoena, Paige, and you certainly can't hide from Eleanor Vance," I murmured, standing up slowly from the table. My heart didn't hammer against my ribs the way it used to; there was no icy grip of panic in my chest. Instead, there was a cold, hard resolve. We had crossed the Rubicon. There was no going back to the days of groveling for crumbs of maternal approval.
I walked down the narrow hallway, each step deliberate, and pulled the door open.
Standing in the dim, flickering fluorescent light of the apartment hallway wasn't Helen. It was Arthur, Helen’s eternally submissive, perpetually tight-lipped lawyer of a husband—my former father-in-law. But he looked different. The bespoke Italian wool overcoat he always wore was rumpled, his silver hair was uncombed, and the faint scent of stale scotch hung heavy in the stale corridor air.
"May I come in, Chloe?" Arthur asked, his voice cracking slightly, devoid of its usual courtroom baritone.
May you like
I didn't move. I kept my hand firmly on the brass doorknob, blocking the entrance. "Arthur. It’s a bit late for social calls. Or did Helen forget to program your GPS?"
Arthur winced, his gaze dropping to the floorboards. "Please. Just five minutes. It's... it’s about the estate. And Helen."
