by Eva Ashwood
I made my way over to my father. He was surrounded. My mother looked shaken, her brown eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.
“Dad—”
“Miss, I need you to back away.” The female officer in the suit held me back, her hold on my shoulders firm, her eyes calm.
“That’s my father!” I insisted. I’d been taught never to yell, and especially never to yell at my elders, but fear made it hard to control my tone and volume. “Why are you arresting him? What are you doing?”
Panic rose in my chest as my father’s eyes cut to me. Those jade green irises, the exact same shade as mine, were sharp.
“Cordelia,” he said stiffly, just shy of a snap. “Calm yourself.”
Right. People are still around. This isn’t the time for hysterics.
I looked up to the officer. “Please?” I said softly. “He’s my father.”
She gave me a look like she was trying to evaluate whether I might have some kind of concealed weapon or something—trying to decide if I was dangerous. Finally, with a sigh, she let me go. I rushed to my father, who kept his distance from the officer that’d first come in.
“This is a mistake,” Dad said again, lowering his voice without losing any of the strength in his tone. “Fraud? I’ve never committed any crime, let alone a felony fraud—”
“With all due respect, Mr. van Rensselaer, we’ve been conducting an investigation for the last year and a half.” The man’s triumphant smile made my stomach twist. “I’ve read you your rights, I would suggest you say nothing more until you’ve spoken with your lawyer—”
“Hey!” Dad’s booming voice interrupted the officer, and I jumped, my heart slamming hard against my ribs. He’d just told me not to shout, not to lose control and make a scene, but now my father was doing both, his face set in hard lines of anger… and fear. My gaze followed his, tracking over to a group of men who were making their way up the curved staircase leading to the rest of the house.
“You can’t go up there!” he thundered. “What are you doing—?”
The officer in front of us put his hand on my father’s chest.
“We have a warrant to search and seize any evidence relevant to this case,” he explained, his tone flat. My hands clenched into fists as I pressed my lips into a line. He didn’t care that this was our home his people were violating. “Including items purchased fraudulently—”
“Excuse me,” Dad interrupted. “Fraudulently purchased? This is my family home—”
“And those are the terms of the warrant.” A self-satisfied smirk curved the man’s lips again. I hated it. I didn’t know why, but his confidence made my blood run cold. “I would hate to have to add obstruction of justice to your list of offenses, sir.”
My father quieted, but I could tell he didn’t want to. He was too prideful to take being told what to do in his own home without a measure of indignation. The crowd of guests around us had thinned, but many people were still watching us, intently observing every moment of my father’s degradation.
For the first time, my mother spoke up.
“Please, surely there must be some mistake,” she said. Her usually musical voice had a slight rasp to it, as if she were pushing the sound out past closed vocal cords. “Perhaps we can settle this without all of this disruption—”
“Ma’am,” the officer interrupted, shifting his focus to her. He looked irritated, but I had the strange feeling that was an act. That he was enjoying this the way Dad enjoyed a fine, aged whiskey, savoring every moment of it. “I think I’ve made myself about as clear as I possibly can. I’ll have to ask you not to interfere, unless you’d like to be arrested along with your husband.”
My mother’s already pale skin whitened like a sheet. I forced my feet into motion and went to her, not knowing what else to do as our home was overtaken by federal agents, who marched through the halls with purposeful steps.
As the remaining party guests slipped away into the night, the agents dismantled our home.
They went into the rooms, taking things seemingly at random. After about an hour of that, our massive front foyer was filled with our belongings. Mom, Dad, and I were still gathered near the base of the stairs. Dad stood stiffly, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he clenched his teeth in anger. Mom had her arms around me, and to any officer who glanced our way, it might look like she was comforting me—but the reality was, she was clinging to me.
I was helping her remain upright.
And still, the men in the suits didn’t stop. They gathered more and more items from upstairs, to the point that I had to wonder if they were really taking things as evidence, or if it was just to prove a point.
That they could do whatever they wanted, say it was for whatever they wanted, and we weren’t able to do a thing about it.
My father, once the most powerful man I knew, couldn’t do a single thing to stop them.
A week later, the large mansion was empty.
Empty of people. Empty of belongings.
Empty of memories.
What hadn’t been taken in the raid, Mom had to liquidate; it was the only way to get enough money to pay for Dad’s lawyer. Nearly everything to my father’s name was under lock and key. Mom had a small amount of money in savings, and that small amount, pooled together with what I had in my own…
Well. It was something. Meager, compared to what we were used to, but something. Just enough to pay for Dad’s legal team and a small two-bedroom rental across town.
We’d lost our house. Our home.
I knew some people had considered the massive mansion to be too big and ostentatious—even Dad’s wealthiest friends had exclaimed over the size and grandeur of our house—but to me, it’d always just been home.
The place where I’d spent my entire childhood. Where Ava had taught me to swim in the large pool house out back. Where I’d run down the stairs on Christmas morning, padding quietly on bare feet to make sure I didn’t wake my parents up too early.
It still hadn’t quite sunk in that this was real, although it’d been weeks since the day my father was arrested.
I was grateful it was summertime. I couldn’t imagine going to school with this… scandal? Is that what it was called when your father was arrested for felony fraud?
Whatever it was called, I was glad I didn’t have to face anyone at Highland Park Preparatory Academy with my father’s trial hanging over my family like a guillotine blade ready to fall across our necks. But with the amount of money we needed, with everything that the federal agents took, there was no way Mom would have been able to keep the house.
Ava had stayed as long as possible. She’d helped us where she could, but without a steady paycheck, she had to move on to find another job. It broke my heart. It broke hers. We had said a tearful goodbye a few days ago, and out of all the things that had my heart hurting, her leaving was the worst.
Now, I stood in the doorway of our empty home, waiting for Mom to come downstairs. We’d moved what we could to the rental house; Ava had dropped off the few keepsakes and heirlooms we’d been allowed to keep there as her last favor to our family. The crystal glassware that had been used at my parents’ wedding. The mahogany chair that’d belonged to my great-grandfather.
We couldn’t take everything, however. Beside me were two suitcases with as many clothes as I had managed to fit in them. Enough for an extended holiday, but hardly everything. Not even half. Clothes, I knew, were the least of my worries, but after giving up so much of our lives, they felt like a comfort. They felt familiar.
It was silly. But at the moment, I didn’t care.
“Mom?” I called up, hating how my voice echoed in the empty space. “We have to go.”
A few moments later, she came down the stairs, her own suitcase held in one fragile hand. I watched her in silence, feeling helpless and awkward.
We hadn’t spoken much since Dad’s arrest. Without the comings and goings of a busy social life—because no one in their right minds would
find themselves associating with us anymore, leaving us like a pair of castaways on a deserted island—without Dad, without Ava, the fact that Mom and I didn’t really… speak to each other a lot became even more apparent.
I didn’t know how to speak to her if I wasn’t asking which cocktail dress she’d prefer me in, if I wasn’t informing her that I had an event at school or had achieved some honor she’d be proud of. The emotional things, the things that came from the heart—my crushes on boys or fights with cruel girls at school or fears and doubts about the future—were things that I’d always spoken to Ava about. I would pour my heart out, and Ava would listen, hug me, and give me advice.
Reflexively, I turned, as if Ava would be standing at my side to reassure me that everything would be okay. No one was there. Nothing but cool air and the sinking feeling in my heart.
“Well… It’s time to go,” Mom said when she reached the bottom step. Her voice was heavy with weariness, reminding me that I wasn’t the only one having a hard time with all of this. Mom was probably devastated, even if she didn’t say it.
“Yeah,” I said, injecting as much optimism into my voice as possible. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m sure everything will work out soon. It’s all just a misunderstanding, right?”
My mother gave a nod and a noncommittal hum. And that was the end of the conversation.
We loaded our suitcases into the back of the car, one of the few things we’d managed to keep. It was an old-school Bentley and had belonged to my mother’s father. It was in her name; part of me wondered if the federal agents would have taken it if it’d been in my father’s name, just out of spite.
Mom slid into the front seat as I climbed into the passenger side. We sat there for a few moments before I realized the problem.
She was staring at the steering wheel and dashboard, lost.
Oh, God. When was the last time that she had driven herself anywhere? Before I was born, I was certain. I reached over and took her hand, her knuckles white with the way she gripped the keys. I guided her movement as she slid the key into the ignition, turned it, and put the car in reverse.
“See.” I smiled hopefully, even though it hurt my face. “Not so hard, right?”
My reassurance did nothing. Silently, my mother pulled us out of the driveway, and away from the only place I had ever called home.
Three
Our drive was eerily quiet, void of music or speaking. I kept my head leaned against the window, looking outside as plush, manicured lawns and sprawling Baltimore mansions gave way to cluttered suburbs and over-crowded ghettos.
My stomach dropped as we left the familiar neighborhoods behind, heading deeper and deeper into the side of the tracks my father had always disparaged. Children ran up and down the sidewalks or rode bikes in the streets. More than once, people stopped to leer at my mother’s car as we drove past.
They were looking at the car, not the two of us inside it, but it still felt like walking down the street stark naked and vulnerable. I shrank down in my seat, my heart thudding hard in my chest. I was used to being looked at, used to being the center of attention. But all my training for how to handle myself in high society had done nothing to prepare me for this. I felt wholly out of my depth.
Too soon, or perhaps not soon enough, Mom and I pulled into the driveway of a small house. It was squat and square, the cement of the front steps was crumbling, and the paint was faded and peeling. It barely looked like it could keep one person comfortably, let alone two.
My mother said nothing as she parked the car. We sat there for a moment, both of us staring at the house. From my understanding, my father’s lawyer had helped her find this place. It’d been one of the only two-bedrooms we could afford, considering neither my mother nor I were working.
I swallowed. Might as well get it over with.
Mom was still sitting stock still beside me, and I had a feeling she wouldn’t move until I did. So I was the first person out of the car.
The feeling of vulnerability didn’t go away as I trailed around to the trunk, pulling out my suitcases. It’s okay, I told myself. It’s just until Dad gets released.
Because he had to be released. There was no way he could possibly be guilty of what he’d been accused of. Once he was exonerated, once this all blew over, we would get our things back—get our house back. We would be a family again. Whole.
I kept telling myself this, and as I lugged out both of my suitcases, I paused.
Someone was watching me.
Over the years, I’d gotten good at picking up on things like that. My mother had taught me to be aware of who was looking at me at all times—to navigate a cocktail party or ball with perfect aplomb.
My back straightened, and I glanced around, locking gazes with a boy standing across the street from me.
Shaggy brown hair fell into his face, but it didn’t diminish the intensity of the hazel eyes that stared back at me. He leaned against a beat-up convertible, no shirt on and his jeans slung low on his hips. He was probably about my age, but he looked older somehow—like he’d seen more of the world in his seventeen or eighteen years than I had. His shoulders were broad, his muscles sculpted and defined.
The boy’s head tilted as he openly stared at me, pinning me with his gaze as something like recognition flashed in his eyes. The thought of someone from here recognizing me sent a shiver of fear down my spine.
It’s fine, Cora. He doesn’t know you. Don’t be ridiculous. He’s probably just curious about the new neighbors. No one in this neighborhood probably had an inkling who my father was, let alone who I was.
Taking hold of whatever poise and haughtiness was left in me after the past several weeks, I turned my nose up. I wasn’t usually snobby—not with people I knew—but this boy was a stranger, and I didn’t have the patience to indulge his vulgar, rude staring.
Instead of looking away, he smirked, running his tongue over his bottom lip.
I flushed. What the hell?
Heat crept up my cheeks and then kept going, seeming to spread to every inch of my body, making me warm all over. The boy was undeniably good looking—one of the hottest guys I’d ever seen, actually—but something about him put me off-balance.
It wasn’t like with Barrett, the way my skin had crawled when he’d touched me, making me want to flee his presence.
This was something else entirely.
Not repulsion.
Attraction.
Mom was still sitting in the car, and I couldn’t seem to make my feet move. Couldn’t tear my gaze away from the dangerous-looking, sexy boy across the street. He didn’t seem in any hurry to look away either, and the longer we stared at each other, the harder it became to breathe.
Finally, the strange, buzzing connection between us was broken when two other boys approached the first. A bronze-skinned, tall one, and another with a shock of short blond hair. They were shirtless too, and the sight of them nearly short-circuited my brain.
It was too much to process at once. It wasn’t like I’d never seen guys with their shirts off before, but there was something about the raw strength that seemed to radiate from their bodies, the dominating size of them, and the way they all stared at me in complete silence, that made my heart beat so hard I was sure they must be able to hear it from where they stood.
My mouth opened slightly as I tried to think of something to say—but no words came. If they had talked shit to us or catcalled me or something, I probably could’ve mustered up a scathing retort. But their quiet intensity threw me off.
The first boy, the brown-haired one, finally turned to murmur something to the boy with white-blond hair. It was too quiet for me to pick up his words, but I used the opportunity to wrench myself out of whatever strange bubble we’d all been encased in, stepping back toward the car and grabbing my bags again.
Mom was already inside—she’d gone in while I’d been distracted, leaving her suitcase behind in the trunk. She hadn’t even bothered to close the door behind her.
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Deciding to come back for her bag later, I followed after her. It took all my effort not to turn and look once more at the boys across the street, but I forced myself to keep my focus straight ahead even as their gazes burned into me.
I slammed the door shut behind me and paused inside.
Deep breath in, another out.
Our grand entrance had been larger than the space that took up the entire house, I realized as I looked around. The living room was smaller than some of our closets, the kitchen half the size of that. Not that I even knew how to cook.
Everything felt painfully claustrophobic as I made my quick tour of the house. Small kitchen, small living room, one bathroom, two bedrooms.
I peeked into what I supposed counted as the master bedroom. My mother sat on an unmade bed, staring down at the floor.
“Mom?” I asked softly. I wondered if I should try to comfort her… she looked so lost.
She didn’t look up at me as she answered dully. “Unpack. Ava brought groceries when she moved our things here. We’ll make dinner soon.”
We didn’t, though.
Mom was fast asleep before dinner could even be considered. I finished unpacking the few things I’d been able to keep before I poked my head into her room again. She lay on top of the still unmade bed, curled in on herself. Her clothing was pristine, well kept, her hair still perfectly styled. She was still dressed like the blue-blood heiress who had been the envy of the Baltimore elite, but everything about her looked painfully out of place in this run-down little house.
Instead of waking her up, I decided to leave her be. Mom often claimed to have trouble sleeping, so if she was knocked out now, it was probably because she had a little help. I couldn’t blame her. It would have been nice to lie down and simply think of nothing for the time being.
But when I thought of Dad sitting in some prison cell, it was hard to justify that kind of escapism.