Chapter 4 - The Stolen Key
My mother shrank back against the refrigerator. The kitchen lights caught the fine tremor in her hands.
"I... I gave it to her," my mother whispered.
"Mom!" Jason snapped, looking between Diane and his wife.
"Becca wasn't even using it!" my mother suddenly burst out, her guilt turning into reflexive defense. "You’ve been in Denver all month, Becca! Olivia had the children's winter break planned. Jason needed to impress the board members from his venture firm. You have a small apartment, you have your insurance job—you don't *need* a place like this! Olivia has a family!"
"I earned this place," I said, my voice dangerously low. "With six years of overtime, two torn rotator cuffs, and twenty-eight weekends spent sleeping in a sub-zero sleeping bag while the roof was being framed."
"And you're selfish!" Olivia cried out. The mask had completely shattered now. She slammed her coupe glass onto the counter; champagne spilled over my hand-laid subway tile. "You've always been selfish, Rebecca! Ever since Dad died, you took all his tools, you took his truck, you took everything that should have been split between us!"
"Dad left you his entire life insurance policy," I reminded her, cold rage settling into my chest. "Eighty thousand dollars. You spent it on a leased Audi and a trip to Cabo in six months."
A few of Olivia’s friends were already whispering, pulling out their phones. In our world, social reputation was currency, and Olivia’s stock was crashing violently in front of her inner circle.
"Everybody out," I said.
"Excuse me?" Olivia shrieked.
"You have thirty minutes to clear your things out of my house," I said. "All of you. Aunt Carol, Michael, you can take your coats. The rest of you, pack your luggage and get in your cars."
"Becca, be reasonable!" Jason protested, his face red with humiliation. "Look outside! It's dumping snow! The pass is probably closed by now!"
I looked toward the triple-pane picture window overlooking the valley. He was right about one thing: the flurries had turned into a white wall. The pine trees outside were bowing under heavy, wet snow. The wind screamed through the canyon.
"Highway 550 closes at eight," I said, glancing at my watch. "It’s seven-fifteen. If you leave now, you can make Ouray. If you stay, you are trespassing on private property."
"You wouldn't dare kick your own family out into a blizzard," my mother sobbed. "On Christmas!"
May you like
"Try me," I said.
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