Chapter 8 - The Fallout
The silence that followed my final sentence was absolute, heavy, and suffocating. You could have heard a pin drop on the thick carpet of the Ashton Gardens ballroom.
My mother stood frozen two feet away from the podium, her hand still raised in the air, her face drained of every drop of color. She looked around the room, desperately searching for a sympathetic face among the forty local society women and family friends who were now staring at her with wide, shocked eyes and whispering behind cupped hands.
Harper burst into tears—loud, hysterical, panic-driven sobs—burying her face in her hands as her mother-in-law hurried over to comfort her with a look of horror and disgust.
Chase didn't yell. He didn't make excuses. He grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair, turned on his heel, and walked straight out the double glass doors toward the parking lot, leaving his wife and parents behind to face the wreckage.
I picked up my manila folder, tucked it back under my arm, and stepped down from the podium.
As I walked down the center aisle toward the exit, the crowd parted automatically, quiet and wide-eyed, making a clear path for me as if I were a federal inspector walking through a restricted zone.
Nobody tried to stop me. Nobody called my name.
When I pushed through the glass doors into the cool autumn air, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text message from an unknown number—or rather, a local landline.
Thank you, the text simply read.
It was from my dad.
I got into my truck, started the engine, and drove home.
May you like
For the first time in three years, when I pulled into my driveway, there was no silver Lexus, no U-Haul truck, and no porch light burning wastefully against the daylight.
The house was dark, quiet, and completely mine.
