Three years of anonymous mercy. Three years of shielding them from the consequences of their own choices. Three years of hoping they might, somehow, still be reachable.
And this was what they thought of me.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll come back tomorrow for my things. Grandpa’s box is still in the basement.”
There was no box. My grandfather had been dead for years, and anything worth keeping I had already removed. But I needed a reason to return.
“Ten in the morning,” my father said dismissively. “Use the side entrance. And don’t park where anyone can see that car.”
That night, I did not sleep in the Corolla.
I drove to the Ritz-Carlton penthouse I kept under an alias.
Three thousand square feet. Harbor views. Italian furniture. Heated marble floors. A shower with six jets. Bottles in the wine fridge that cost more than my father made in a month.
I poured a glass of Château Margaux and stood at the window looking down at the city.
Tomorrow, I thought, they learn the truth.
And I learn whether truth produces remorse—or just greed in a purer form.
By then, I already knew the answer.
The next morning, I made four calls.
First, Victoria Bennett. “Execute the plan.”