Chapter 1 - The Erased Sister
The sterile smell of cheap rubbing alcohol clung to my skin, mixing with the dust of cardboard boxes and lavender fabric softener from Sheila’s baby supplies.
I stood in the doorway of what used to be my sanctuary for twenty-four years. The pale yellow walls I had painted with my own hands during college were now plastered over with cartoon safari decals. The antique mahogany sewing machine my grandmother had left me—the one tool that kept my small custom tailoring business afloat before the nightmare began—had vanished without a trace.
"Where are my things?" I asked, turning slowly toward the hallway.
My mother, Abigail, walked up behind me, smoothing down her floral apron with nervous, fluttering hands. She wouldn't look directly into my eyes; instead, her gaze darted to the peeling trim above the doorframe.
"Oh, Summer, honey," she began in that breathy, condescending tone she always used when delivering bad news wrapped in pity. "You were gone for two whole years. We didn't know what the parole board would decide. Things were getting so cluttered, and Austin and Sheila needed space for the nursery. We... well, we held a yard sale to help cover Austin's legal consult fees back then. The rest went to the municipal donation depot."
"You threw away Grandma’s sewing machine?" My voice didn't rise. It remained flat, cold, and dead as a winter lake. "You gave away my college journals? My clothes?"
"Sheila needed winter sweaters," my mother said defensively, crossing her arms. "And besides, you're an adult now. You can't hold on to sentimental junk when this family has real responsibilities to prepare for. Look at Sheila. She's carrying your brother’s legacy."
A sharp, mocking chuckle echoed from down the hall.
Sheila strolled toward us, holding a cup of herbal tea, her hand resting deliberately on her rounded belly beneath my cream cashmere sweater. "Let's be realistic, Summer. An ex-felon doesn't need cashmere. You should be grateful we even let you put your bag down inside the entryway. Most families would have changed the locks the day you got processed into the state facility."
Austin finally moved. He walked out of the kitchen, hands shoved deep into his designer jeans.
Two years ago, Austin had been driving my sedan down Route 33 after a company party, reeking of tequila, when he struck an off-duty county transit worker on a bicycle. He had called me from a ditch, sobbing hysterically, begging me to take the wheel before the highway patrol arrived. 'Summer, please! I just got my commercial broker license! If I go to prison, my life is over! You don't have a record! Dad said they'll give you probation!'
I was twenty-six, naive, and hopelessly conditioned to sacrifice myself for the golden boy of the family. I got into the driver’s seat. I blew into the breathalyzer.
Except the prosecutor was running for county judge, and the judge wanted to set an example. Probation vanished. I was sentenced to twenty-four months at Marysville Correctional Institution.
Austin hadn't lost his license. In fact, he had used those two years to purchase a new truck, marry Sheila in a lavish garden ceremony I was forbidden from attending on furlough, and absorb every single asset our family owned.
"Austin," I said, looking straight at him. "You haven't said hello."
He shifted his weight, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Hey, Summer. Glad you're out. Look... about the house. Dad probably mentioned it. With my new brokerage position, I needed the deed on paper to secure a business line of credit. The bank wouldn't approve it if the deed was split with someone who has an active felony record."
"So Dad signed over the entire house to you?" I asked. "The house that our parents bought using fifty thousand dollars from my personal savings account as the down payment?"
My father, Lawrence, didn't even look up from the baseball game blaring on the television in the living room. "That was family money, Summer," he barked across the hallway. "You lived under my roof for twenty-four years rent-free. Consider that your rent. You made your bed when you got behind that wheel. Don't come in here acting like a landlord when Austin is the only one bringing honor to this family name."
Sheila smiled, taking a slow sip of her tea. "There’s a transitional women's shelter down on Broad Street. Austin called them yesterday. They have a cot available if you check in before six o'clock."
I looked at all four of them: my mother who viewed me as a burden, my father who had erased my hard-earned savings, my sister-in-law wearing my clothes, and my brother who had let me rot behind barbed wire for his crime.
For two years, the memory of coming home was the only candle burning in the pitch-black cold of prison.
Now, standing in the hallway of my stolen house, I blew that candle out forever.
"I don't need a cot on Broad Street," I said quietly, picking up my battered suitcase. "I just need twenty-four hours to collect my remaining tax paperwork from the garage office."
Austin breathed a visible sigh of relief. "Sure. Of course. Take until tomorrow noon. Then we have to change the deadbolts for the baby's safety."
May you like
"Tomorrow noon," I agreed, turning toward the back door.
None of them noticed the small, square flash drive resting securely in the zipped inner lining of my denim jacket.
