Chapter 5 - The First Warm Meal
The grand ballroom of the mansion was a disaster area, but I didn't care about the gravy on the wallpaper or the shattered crystal on the floor.
I walked past the mess, taking Sarah gently by the elbow, and led her up the sweeping marble staircase to the master suite on the second floor—the suite that Gertrude had claimed for herself while my wife slept in a broom closet.
I pushed open the double doors.
The room was immense. A king-sized bed with plush down comforters sat against the far wall; a gas fireplace crackled softly in the corner, throwing warm, amber light across silk rugs and mahogany furniture.
Gertrude had lived in absolute luxury.
I walked over to the bed, pulled back the silk sheets, and threw them onto the floor. I opened the cedar closet, pulled out fresh, clean cotton linens that had never been used, and remade the bed with my own hands.
"Marcus..." Sarah whispered, standing near the doorway, holding Jamie as if she were afraid to step onto the soft carpet. "We shouldn't be in here... your mother's things—"
"This is your room, Sarah," I said, walking over to her and taking Jamie from her arms. "This has always been your room."
I laid Jamie down on the center of the plush mattress. The six-year-old boy sank into the soft down featherbed, his eyes widening in pure shock. He reached out, his tiny fingers touching the smooth cotton sheets, then looked up at me as if waiting to be struck for touching something forbidden.
"It's okay, buddy," I whispered, kneeling beside the bed and smoothing the dark hair away from his forehead. "It's your bed now. Nobody is ever going to take it away from you."
Jamie didn't say anything. He just pulled the heavy blanket up to his chin, let out a long, shuddering sigh, and closed his eyes. Within two minutes, exhausted beyond measure, he was fast asleep.
I turned to Sarah. "Stay here. I'm going to make something to eat."
"Marcus, no, you've been traveling for twenty hours—"
"I spent five years waiting to cook for my family," I said softly, touching her cheek. "Let me do this."
I went downstairs to the main kitchen—not the filthy service kitchen in the back, but the state-of-the-art commercial kitchen attached to the formal dining room. The pantry was stocked with high-end groceries: fresh organic vegetables, prime cuts of beef, artisanal bread, and imported cheeses that Gertrude had purchased for her social parties.
I rolled up my sleeves.
I didn't make anything fancy. I took a thick cut of beef tenderloin, seasoned it simply, and seared it in a cast-iron skillet. I boiled fresh potatoes, mashing them with real butter and cream, and steamed fresh carrots until they were soft and sweet.
The rich, savory aroma of real food filled the house, replacing the stale smell of bleach and old grease.
Twenty minutes later, I brought a wooden tray up to the master suite.
Sarah was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Jamie sleep. When I walked in with the tray, her nose twitched, and her stomach let out a loud, hollow growl. She instantly blushed, covering her face with her hands in embarrassment.
"Don't be ashamed," I said, setting the tray down on the nightstand beside her. "Eat."
She looked at the plate—at the thick, juicy steak, the steaming mashed potatoes, the bright orange carrots. Her hands began to shake.
She picked up a fork, her fingers clumsy from disuse, and took a small bite of the potato.
The moment the warm, rich food hit her tongue, Sarah froze. Tears filled her eyes, spilling over her lashes and dripping onto her lap. She began to eat—first slowly, then faster, her body instinctively desperate for nutrients after months of starvation.
I sat on the floor beside her, resting my arm on the edge of the bed, watching her eat.
"Take it slow," I murmured gently. "Your stomach isn't used to rich food. There’s plenty more."
She nodded through her tears, swallowing hard, and forced herself to slow down. She reached out with her free hand, wrapping her fingers around mine, gripping me tightly as if to reassure herself that I was real, that this wasn't just a cruel dream brought on by starvation.
"They told me you were dead, Marcus," she whispered between small bites, her voice raspy and broken. "Three months ago... Prudence came down to the broom closet with a newspaper article about a gas pipeline explosion in Saudi Arabia. She said twelve men died. She said your body was burned beyond recognition."
My blood ran cold. "An explosion?"
"She said... she said there was no insurance payout," Sarah continued, her voice trembling. "She said you died in debt... she said the company was suing our family for negligence. She told me that if I didn't work off your debt by cleaning the house and staying out of sight, they would send Jamie to a state orphanage."
I closed my eyes, my breath coming in tight, painful hitches.
The horror of what Gertrude and Prudence had done went far beyond simple greed. They had constructed a psychological prison for Sarah, using grief, fear, and maternal terror to completely crush her spirit so she would never think to reach out for help.
"There was an explosion," I said softly, opening my eyes and looking at her. "Eight months ago. At the site in Al-Jubail. Four men died. I was three miles away at the maintenance depot."
I reached up, gently touching the deep, pale scar that ran from my hairline down to my temple.
"I got burned by a steam line while trying to clear the pressure valves," I said. "I was in the hospital in Riyadh for two weeks. I sent a cable to Gertrude... I told her to tell you I was okay."
Sarah let out a soft, bitter laugh. "She never told me. She took the cable, burned it in the fireplace, and told me you were dead."
I took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the dark rage inside me settle into something cold, hard, and permanent.
This was no longer just about kicking my mother and sister out of my house.
This was about justice. Absolute, unyielding, and total justice.
"Tomorrow morning," I said, looking Sarah dead in the eye, "we go to the police station."
Sarah looked at me, a sudden wave of panic crossing her face. "Marcus... your mother... she has friends in the city government. Mayor Higgins—"
"Mayor Higgins ran out of this house like a coward tonight because he knows what Gertrude did," I said flatly. "And Mrs. Vance from the charity board watched me lay out the wire transfers."
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I leaned forward, pressing my forehead against hers.
"They thought I was just a welder sending money home," I whispered. "They forgot that before I went to Saudi Arabia, I spent three years working as an auditor for the state tax department. I know how to trace money, Sarah. And I am going to tear their entire world down to the bedrock."
