Chapter 9 - The House on the Hill
By Christmas, the Sullivan estate had transformed into something unrecognizable to the socialites of Nashville.
The tall wrought-iron security gates, once designed to keep prying eyes away from illicit bookkeeping, were replaced with white wooden horse fences. The east wing carriage house—where Walter and Tiffany had hidden my daughter—was completely razed to the ground by an excavation crew. In its place, Megan had designed an open-air greenhouse and pediatric sensory garden filled with winter jasmine, lemon trees, and soft rubberized walkways for the toddlers.
On Christmas Eve, a light dusting of snow fell across the Cumberland Valley, coating the rolling lawns in a blanket of clean, silent white.
Inside the main living room, a twelve-foot balsam fir tree stood decorated with handmade salt-dough ornaments. Mason and Bryce, now walking with steady, thunderous strides, were chasing a golden retriever puppy around the perimeter of the grand sofa, shrieking with pure, unfettered joy.
Hazel sat in a velvet high chair by the dining table, wearing a red wool sweater with white reindeer knitted across the chest. Her cheeks were chubby and pink, her heart murmur officially classified as fully resolved by the pediatric surgical board at Vanderbilt. She banged her plastic cup against the tray, giggling every time her brothers tumbled over the dog.
Megan stood by the tall kitchen island, wearing a simple cream-colored wool sweater and dark denim jeans. The hollow, emaciated shadows had completely disappeared from her face. Her blond hair, cut to her shoulders, shone with healthy vitality under the warm pendant lights.
I walked over and set a small wooden box on the marble counter beside her cutting board.
She paused, looking down at the unpolished cedar wood. “Garrett, we agreed no expensive jewelry. The company’s charity foundation needs those funds for the rural clinics.”
“It’s not jewelry,” I said.
Megan opened the lid. Inside was a set of new, heavy brass keys, alongside an official title deed issued by the Davidson County Register of Deeds.
“Sullivan Manor doesn't exist anymore,” I explained, watching her eyes scan the document. “I dissolved the property corporation. This land, the house, the stables, and the acreage belong solely to Megan Sullivan and her three heirs. My name is nowhere on the title. If you want me to pack my bags tonight and never return, you don’t need an attorney or an eviction notice. You just have to tell me to go.”
Megan looked up from the deed, her eyes brimming with clear, warm tears. She reached out, took the cedar box, and gently pushed it back across the marble toward my hands.
“I don’t want the house to belong to Megan Sullivan,” she said, her voice steady and clear.
May you like
My heart dropped into my stomach like a stone. “I understand.”
“I want it to belong to the Sullivan family,” she continued, taking a step forward and resting her hand against my chest, right over my pounding heart. “The real family. Not the one built on lies, fear, and secrecy. But the one that crawled out of the ditch on Highway 70.”
