Chapter 5 - An Uninvited Breakfast
The wrought-iron gate of 412 East Gaston Street swung open with a familiar metallic groan. It was 7:45 AM. The morning fog was lifting off the live oaks, burning away beneath a sharp, golden Southern sun.
I walked up the sweeping wrap-around porch—the porch Dad had sanded and sealed with marine-grade spar varnish when I was ten years old. Under the doormat, Derek had placed a sleek new welcome sign: *The Montgomery Estate – Derek & Veronica.*
Our family name is Vance. Montgomery was Veronica’s maiden name. She hadn't even allowed our parents' name to remain on the front stoop.
I didn't knock. I turned the brass knob, found it unlocked, and pushed the heavy mahogany door open.
The rich aroma of artisanal French roast coffee drifted from the kitchen, mingled with the sizzling scent of bacon. Soft jazz played from the integrated surround-sound speakers Derek had recessed into the antique heart-pine ceiling.
"Arthur, I told you twice already," Veronica’s voice rang out from the kitchen, dripping with irritation. "Do not come into the house until we leave for the club. Take the dog out back and—"
She stepped into the hallway carrying a white porcelain mug, wearing silk loungewear, and froze.
Her eyes went wide, the mug wobbling in her manicured hand. "Julian?"
"Morning, Veronica," I said pleasantly, holding up a bakery box from a patisserie downtown. "Smells great in here. I brought fresh almond croissants."
Derek stepped out of the dining room a second later, adjusting an Italian linen shirt. When his eyes locked onto mine, a flash of pure, unadulterated panic flickered across his face before he smoothed it over with a practiced, predatory smile.
"Julian! My God, man!" Derek stepped forward with his arms wide, attempting a boisterous embrace. "What are you doing here? Mom said she called you, but... man, you should have let us know! We would have sent a car to the airport!"
I let him hug me, feeling the tension coiled in his shoulders like steel wire.
"I wanted to surprise Dad for his birthday," I said, walking past him into the kitchen.
The room was unrecognizable. The warm, rustic oak cabinets Dad had built with his own hands had been ripped out and replaced with sterile white lacquer. A five-thousand-dollar espresso machine hissed on the quartz counter.
"Where are Mom and Dad?" I asked, looking around innocently. "I looked in their bedroom upstairs. Looked like you guys took that room over."
Derek cleared his throat, casting a quick, warning glance at Veronica, who was frantically tapping a message into her phone by the sink.
"Yeah, well, you know how Dad’s knees have been," Derek said smoothly, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Those stairs were getting dangerous for him. Mom was having trouble with the laundry too. We had a family meeting about it back in the spring. We decided it was best for them to take the garden suite."
"The garden suite?" I raised an eyebrow. "You mean the storage shed behind the woodshop?"
Derek didn't flinch. He let out a patronizing chuckle. "Oh, come on, Julian. You know Dad. He’s eccentric. He *wanted* to be close to his workshop. He told us he felt cooped up in the main house with all our business meetings. We offered them the downstairs guest suite, but they insisted on having their own private space out there. We completely renovated it for them—insulated it, put in heating, the works."
The sheer audacity of the lie was breathtaking. If I hadn't spent half the night sitting on a rusted cot in that freezing, drafty shack, watching my father divide a cold turkey sandwich, I might have almost believed his smooth, unblinking delivery.
"Is that so?" I said, setting the bakery box on the island. "Because when I walked through the yard twenty minutes ago, I saw a padlock on the workshop. And Dad was sitting on an army cot using a five-gallon bucket for a bedside table."
The room went dead silent. The jazz music suddenly sounded absurdly loud.
Veronica set her coffee cup down with a sharp *clack*.
"Listen, Julian," she snapped, dropping the polite facade entirely. "You’ve been living high and mighty in your Manhattan penthouse for ten years while Derek and I stayed here to clean up your family's mess. Your parents were bankrupt. They were months away from the sheriff selling this place at auction on the courthouse steps. Derek put his own neck on the line to absorb their debt!"
"Did he?" I asked, stepping closer to her. "With what money, Veronica? His logistics company went belly-up in Atlanta with two million dollars in unpaid vendor liens. Where did he find the cash to save a seven-hundred-thousand-dollar home?"
Derek stepped between us, his chest puffing out, his face reddening.
"That’s none of your business, Julian. I run private investments now. I took care of Mom and Dad when your New York hedge fund left them hanging. You stopped sending money eighteen months ago!"
I looked him dead in the eye. "I never stopped sending money, Derek."
Derek’s eyes narrowed, but a bead of sweat broke along his hairline. "I don't know what you're talking about. The Savannah First Federal account has been empty. If you were sending wire transfers, your bank must have bounced them."
"We’ll see about that," I said quietly. "Where are they right now?"
"They’re resting," Derek said, his voice dropping into a low, threatening growl. "And that’s where they’re going to stay. This is my house now, Julian. My name is on the deed recorded with Chatham County. You’re a guest here. If you start making a scene, if you harass my wife, or if you interfere with my business guests this week, I will have the Savannah Police escort you off the property for criminal trespass."
I stared at my brother. The boy I used to teach how to cast a fishing line at Tybee Island. The boy Dad had worked overtime for three straight summers to buy his first car. He was completely gone. In his place stood a hollow, desperate shell of a man, ready to devour his own parents to project an image of success.
I smiled. A slow, relaxed smile that visibly unsettled him.
"Fair enough, Derek," I said, picking up one of the croissants. "It’s your house. For now. I just came to wish Dad a happy birthday. I assume I'm allowed to walk out back and give my father a hug?"
Derek hesitated, his mind racing, trying to calculate whether he had pushed too hard or whether I was folding.
"Go ahead," Derek spat. "Ten minutes. Then Veronica and I have a private brunch with our title broker. We need the yard clear."
"Of course," I said. "Enjoy your brunch."
I turned and walked out the back door. As the screen door slapped shut behind me, I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and tapped the screen to stop the high-definition voice recording application I had activated before stepping onto the porch.
I sent the audio file straight to Inez with a three-word text:
May you like
*He took the bait. Move.*
***
