Chapter 2 - Porcelain and Silence
The kitchen inside the main house was too bright, smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and expensive roasted coffee beans. Clara had led us inside through the sliding glass doors, steering Maya by the elbow while I walked behind them, my bare feet sticking slightly to the polished hardwood floor. My clothes were still damp, clinging to my skin with a cold, greasy weight.
Clara moved around the island with mechanical precision, pulling a mug from the cupboard and filling it with warm water from the electric kettle. Her cream-colored silk top didn't have a single wrinkle on it. She looked untouched by the scene unfolding thirty feet away on the patio.
"You should drink something," Clara said, not turning around as she set the mug on the counter. Her voice was too quiet, carefully modulated to avoid carrying into the hallway where David was still dealing with the last of the departing guests.
I looked at Maya, who was sitting stiffly on one of the high stools, staring down at her own knees. I didn't touch the mug. "You knew," I said.
Clara’s hand paused on the counter. She took a slow breath, her shoulders rising and falling beneath the smooth silk before she finally turned to face me. Her face was pale, her makeup still immaculate, though her mascara showed the faint smudge of a long, tense evening.
"David was under an extraordinary amount of strain," Clara said, her tone defensive yet carefully measured. "The foundation audit, the public relations campaign for the new wing... people were asking questions. If you had just—"
"If I had just stayed quiet?" I cut in, my voice lower and harder than I intended. "In a dark room with a padlock on the outside?"
"He told me you needed rest," she whispered, stepping closer, her eyes darting toward the doorway as if expecting David to materialize through the drywall. "He said you were a danger to yourself after the diagnosis. What was I supposed to do, challenge him in the middle of a fundraising quarter? You know how he operates."
"I lived with him for ten years, Clara. I know exactly how he operates."
Maya slid off the stool, her sneakers hitting the floor with a sharp scuff. "We're leaving," she said, looking up at me with an expression that was far too old for a twelve-year-old girl. "We're not staying here tonight."
Before I could answer, the kitchen door swung open and David walked in. He had removed his suit jacket, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the heavy gold watch he wore every day. He didn't look at Clara. His focus was entirely on me, his eyes narrowing as he took in the damp hem of my trousers and the dirt smeared across my shins.
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"The police don't need to be involved in this family private matter," David said, his voice dropping into that quiet, reasonable register he used when he was most dangerous. "We can handle this quietly, like we always do."
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