Part 4
“Let’s just pick it up from the first anniversary,” Chloe said, waving a manicured hand through the air as if swatting away a gnat. She dismissed me completely, turning her body toward the windows. “The weekend in Cannon Beach.”
“Right,” Marcus said, shifting his posture to mirror hers. “We drove down in the rain and ate at that Italian place right on the water.”
“It was a French brasserie,” I said, the correction slipping out on instinct.
Marcus sighed heavily. He tilted his head, adopting a clipped, nasal cadence meant to mimic my courtroom voice. “Actually, Marcus, I need to correct the record. The sauce was a béarnaise, not an alfredo, and I must ensure everyone knows you lack basic situational awareness.”
He looked at Chloe, and she let out a bright, chiming laugh. They were a team. I was the opposing counsel.
I stood up from the velvet chair and walked out of the living room without another word. I went upstairs to the master bedroom, closed the heavy door, and spent ten minutes stripping away my work armor. I hung up my blazer. I washed my face, splashing cold water over my eyes, forcing my heart rate to slow down to a manageable rhythm. I told myself what Evelyn had said: I was overanalyzing. I was treating a pragmatic, if insulting, favor like a conspiracy.
I opened the bedroom door and headed back down the hall.
I was halfway down the carpeted staircase when I heard it. A soft, breathless hum from the living room. It wasn’t Chloe’s performative laugh. It was a private, heavy sound.
I stopped on the landing. Through the gaps in the modern steel railing, I had a clear, unobstructed view of the leather sectional.
The rehearsal had stopped.
Marcus was leaning in close to my sister, their shoulders pressed together. His hand was up, his fingers buried in the hair at the nape of her neck. His thumb stroked the line of her jaw with a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Chloe’s eyes were half-closed, her head tilting into his palm, leaning into the touch with the gravity of someone who had done this a hundred times before. They were millimeters away from kissing.
I shifted my weight. The floorboard beneath my right foot let out a sharp, audible pop.
Marcus jerked his hand back, knocking his elbow against the coffee table. Chloe scrambled backward on the cushions, a dark, violent flush creeping up her neck, her eyes wide and terrified as they locked onto me through the railing.
“We were just checking the blocking,” Marcus blurted out, the words rushing out of his mouth in a frantic blur. “For the photos. In case anyone asks us to pose.”
Chloe nodded so fast her hair whipped across her face. “Right. The body language has to look natural. People notice if you stand too far apart.”
I walked down the remaining stairs, the silence stretching out behind their excuses. I stepped back onto the living room rug, walked over to the velvet armchair, and sat down.
I looked at Marcus. Then I looked at Chloe. Their breathing was shallow. They were bracing for the explosion, waiting for the screaming and the accusations, frantically preparing their next line of defense.
I didn’t give them one. I simply crossed my legs, rested my hands in my lap, and let them sit in the agonizing quiet. I let them think their terrible acting had worked. I needed time. If I confronted them now, they would deny it, close ranks, and gaslight me into believing I was losing my mind.
Chloe lasted another forty-five minutes before the tension drove her out. She gathered her purse, muttered something about traffic on I-5, and hurried out the front door.
As soon as the deadbolt clicked shut, Marcus stood up and headed for the stairs. I followed him up, keeping my footsteps perfectly quiet behind him.