Chapter 4 - The House on Magnolia Lane
The Raleigh house looked different without Barron’s ghost haunting the hallways.
It was a classic two-story brick colonial nestled under a sprawling canopy of old-growth magnolias. My grandfather had planted two saplings by the front porch the day my mother was born, and now their branches scraped against the second-story gutters, making a comforting, rhythmic scratching sound whenever the southern breeze picked up.
My younger sister, Maya, was standing on the front porch with a roll of bubble wrap and a tape gun when my military pickup truck crunched up the gravel driveway.
“Tell me you didn’t spend the entire morning at the base motor pool,” Maya called out, shielding her eyes against the afternoon sun.
“I had a battalion inspection,” I said, stepping out of the truck and unbuttoning my service blouse as the humid North Carolina heat hit me. “Inspection passed. Radios are operational. And the county sheriff just served Celina’s bank with final asset seizure notices.”
Maya let out a long whistle, dropping the tape gun onto a cardboard box. “Damn. You’re ruthless when you’re organized.”
“It’s called standard operating procedure.”
We walked inside the foyer. The house had been professionally scrubbed from top to bottom by a cleanup crew Marcus Thorne’s office had recommended. Every trace of Barron’s presence—his expensive golf clubs, his monogrammed deciliters, his pretentious collection of leather-bound investment guides—had been hauled off to a local liquidator or thrown into a dumpster behind a storage facility.
The only things left were my grandfather’s antique cherrywood dining table, a few framed photographs of my mother and me, and a stack of military commendations resting on the mantelpiece.
“So what happens next?” Maya asked, following me into the kitchen as I popped the tab on a bottle of iced tea. “The arraignment is tomorrow morning. Are you going to be there?”
“Thorne said my presence isn’t legally required until the deposition phase next month,” I said, taking a long, cold drink. “But I’m going anyway.”
Maya arched an eyebrow. “Why? Just to watch them squirm?”
“To make sure they see me,” I replied evenly. “In uniform. Standing upright. Living in my house.”
Before Maya could answer, her own phone buzzed on the kitchen island. She glanced at the screen, and her expression instantly hardened.
“Speak of the devil. Or at least, his legal representation.”
“Who is it?”
“Barron’s new court-appointed public defender,” Maya said, grimacing. “He’s asking if there’s any room for a plea bargain involving restitution instead of prison time.”
May you like
I set my iced tea bottle down on the counter. The glass made a sharp clack against the granite surface.
“Tell him the only bargain Barron is going to get is a jumpsuit that matches the county jail paint,” I said without a hint of hesitation. “He recorded the beginning of my execution at the Army Ball. I’m going to stick around to watch the finale.”
