It was a lie. A clean, simple, devastating lie told to dozens of people who would now think I was some cold, ungrateful daughter if I dared to object.
I had never said that. Three months ago, I’d specifically told them the house was off-limits because I was doing renovations. I’d told them I wasn’t ready for guests. I’d told them I needed space.
They hadn’t cared. They’d heard “no,” decided they didn’t like it, and replaced it with “yes.”
“Aurora?”
Robert’s voice snapped me back to the present. Everyone around the table was looking at me, waiting.
I stood up, my legs feeling heavy and unsteady.
“I apologize,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I have a family emergency I need to handle. My team can finish the presentation.”
I didn’t wait for permission or protest. I walked out of the boardroom, down the long hallway, and into the elevator.
As soon as the metal doors closed and I was alone, I let out a breath that sounded almost like a scream.
I went down to the parking garage and got into my car. It was quiet there, dark and cool, and for just a moment it felt safe.
I didn’t start the engine. I just sat in the driver’s seat and looked at my phone again.
I zoomed in on the background of the photos, looking for details, looking for damage, looking for clues about how long they’d been there.
In one photo with my dad at the grill, I spotted an open suitcase in the corner. Clothes were spilling out onto the deck floor. They hadn’t just stopped by for an afternoon. They looked settled in.
I checked the timestamps on the photos. They’d been posted throughout the day, starting yesterday morning.
They’d slept in my bed. They’d showered in my bathroom. They’d eaten food from my refrigerator.
My phone buzzed with a text message. My sister Jessica.
“Hey, Mom said you might be busy, but just wanted to say hi. Hope Seattle is rainy lol. It’s beautiful here.”
She didn’t say where “here” was. She was playing a game, waiting for me to ask so she could act surprised that I didn’t know they were at “my own house.”
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