Chapter 5 - The Grand Entitlement
From the living room window, I watched the doors of the vehicles fly open in rapid succession.
Eleanor emerged from the passenger side of the moving truck wearing a fur-trimmed winter coat, oversized designer sunglasses, and holding a massive venti iced coffee. She didn't look tired. She looked triumphal. She looked like an empress arriving to claim a newly conquered territory.
Vern, my stepfather—a squat, balding man with permanent grease stains on his flannel shirt—climbed out of the driver’s seat, lighting a cigarette and immediately tossing the spent match onto my mulch beds.
From the minivan, Pete tumbled out, scratching his unshaven chin, followed by Krista, who was screaming at her three toddlers to stop kicking the back of the seats. The children, sticky-faced and screaming at the top of their lungs, tumbled out onto the lawn, immediately tearing through my flowerbeds and snapping the delicate winter hydrangeas I had planted two days prior.
“Pete! Grab the master bedroom boxes first!” Eleanor barked across the lawn, waving her iced coffee like a conductor’s baton. “Vern, get the dolly! The king-size mattress goes straight to the ground-floor bedroom! Jocelyn should have already moved her junk into the basement by now!”
Krista jogged up the walkway behind Eleanor, holding an empty plastic mug. “Mom, tell her she has to let Pete have the garage for his tools! If he can’t set up his workshop, he can’t start making custom birdhouses next spring!”
“The garage is already his, Krista, stop whining!” Eleanor snapped back. “I run this house. Jocelyn will do whatever she’s told or she can find an apartment.”
Inside the house, the atmosphere was dead silent.
Sheriff Brody stood tucked just out of sight behind the decorative shiplap column flanking the foyer. Detective Lin sat quietly at the dining table, her laptop open, recording devices active, and documents laid out in pristine chronological order. Uncle Arthur remained seated on the high-backed wooden chair, directly facing the front double doors, his hands resting calmly on the silver head of his walking cane.
Clara was nestled against my chest in a soft cotton sling, her tiny heartbeat thumping against my collarbone. I sat on the living room sofa, my spine rigid, my expression carved from cold slate.
Outside, Eleanor didn't bother to knock.
She didn't ring the doorbell.
She simply reached out, twisted the brass knob, and violently shoved both double doors inward with the heel of her hand.
“Jocelyn!” Eleanor boomed, stepping across the hardwood threshold without wiping her muddy boots. “Get out here right now! Why are the driveway sprinklers on? Pete nearly slipped! And where is the key to the master closet? If you locked your clothes in there, I swear to God I will make Vern take the door off its—"
Eleanor froze.
The words died in her throat like a strangled choke.
Her iced coffee slipped from her manicured fingers, hitting the hardwood entryway floor with a sickening, wet splat, brown liquid and crushed ice splashing violently across the baseboards and her designer boots.
She didn't look at me. She didn't look at Clara.
Her eyes, widened to the size of saucers behind her sunglasses, were locked entirely onto the figure sitting three feet in front of her.
Uncle Arthur slowly leaned forward on his cane. He did not smile. He did not raise his voice. He simply removed his reading glasses, tucked them into his breast pocket, and stared Eleanor directly in the eyes.
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“Good morning, Eleanor,” Arthur said, his voice deep, hollow, and terrifyingly calm. “You’re late. We’ve been waiting for you since eight.”
***
