Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Table
The smell of roasted garlic and rosemary filled the entryway as we walked inside.
My mother emerged from the kitchen wearing a floral apron, her face immediately brightening when she saw us—though her eyes nervously darted toward the dining room.
"Erin! Grace! You’re here," Mom said, coming forward to kiss my cheek. She crouched down in front of Grace, her smile slightly tense. "Hi, sweetie. You look so nice today. Are those new glasses?"
"They’re her spares, Mom," I said smoothly, taking off our coats and hanging them in the closet. "Where’s Dad?"
"He’s in the den with Richard and the kids," Mom whispered, pulling me slightly toward the kitchen corner. "Erin... please. Lauren is in a very good mood today. Let’s just have a nice dinner. Don't bring up what happened on Thursday. She said she’s willing to let it go if you are."
"Willing to let it go?" I repeated softly, my voice dripping with quiet, icy amusement. "How generous of her."
Before Mom could reply, the swinging door from the kitchen opened, and Lauren stepped out.
She wore an ivory silk blouse, tailored trousers, and a pair of expensive gold earrings. She held a glass of white wine in one hand, her smile sharp, polished, and entirely hollow.
"Erin," Lauren said, stepping forward. She didn't look at Grace at all—she spoke right over her head as if the child were an invisible piece of furniture. "I’m glad you decided to be sensible and join us. I told Mom that family shouldn't let minor behavioral corrections come between us."
Grace shrank back slightly against my leg. I reached down, placing my hand firmly on her shoulder, anchoring her.
"It wasn't a behavioral correction, Lauren," I said, my voice echoing clearly through the hallway.
Lauren’s smile tightened around the edges. Her eyes flicked to mine, sharp and warning. "Excuse me?"
"We’ll talk about it after dinner," I replied, holding her gaze until she was the one who looked away first, taking a slow sip of her wine.
"Right," Lauren smirked, turning on her heel. "Well, dinner is served. Everyone into the dining room."
The dining table was fully set with my mother’s best china and crystal glasses. My father sat at the head of the table. He looked frail, his cardigan buttoned unevenly, his eyes slightly clouded as he looked up at me with a slow, gentle smile.
"Erin, my girl," Dad murmured, his voice soft. "Where have you been? I haven't seen you in... in a while."
"I was here four days ago, Dad," I said gently, walking over to kiss his forehead. "How are you feeling?"
"Oh, you know," Dad mumbled, reaching out to touch my hand. "Lauren says I’m getting confused. She says I shouldn't worry about the house papers anymore."
Across the table, Lauren’s husband, Richard—a tall, thick-set man with thin hair and a pretentious air of suburban confidence—cleared his throat loudly.
"Let’s sit, everyone," Richard announced, sliding into his chair. "Lucas, Chloe, Madison—sit down and put your phones away."
The three cousins sat down across from Grace. Lucas, a stout nine-year-old who copied his mother’s arrogance, immediately glared at Grace, snickering under his breath.
"Nice glasses, Grace," Lucas sneered softly. "Did you find those in the trash?"
Grace lowered her head, her fingers clutching her napkin under the table.
I didn't yell. I didn't raise my voice.
I leaned forward, looked straight at Lucas, and spoke in a tone so flat and terrifying that the boy’s smile vanished instantly.
"Lucas," I said. "If you say another word to my daughter tonight, I will speak to your school principal about the incidents on the soccer field last month that your mother paid to cover up. Do you understand me?"
The table went completely dead silent.
Richard stared at me in shock. "What the hell did you just say to my son?"
Lauren dropped her fork onto her plate with a sharp clatter. Her face flushed bright red. "Erin! How dare you threaten my child in my parents' house!"
My mother gasped, clutching her napkin. "Erin! Please!"
I looked around the table. At my terrified, confused father. At my trembling mother. At Richard’s red face. At Lauren’s burning, furious eyes. And finally at Grace, who was looking up at me not with fear, but with profound, awe-struck trust.
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I slowly pulled my handbag onto my lap, unzipped it, and took out the crisp manila folder.
"This isn't your house, Lauren," I said, my voice cutting through the room like a steel blade. "And as of two hours ago, you don't control a single penny of our parents' money."
