Chapter 5 - The Curb on Sycamore Lane
Two hours later, my black Mercedes SUV pulled up to the curb of 414 Sycamore Lane—the sprawling, pretentious suburban estate where I had endured a lifetime of psychological torment and twelve months of undercover espionage.
The scene outside the iron gates looked like a suburban yard sale staged by a Greek tragedy.
Piled haphazardly on the front lawn were expensive velvet armchairs, crystal lamps, towering stacks of designer clothing still on hangers, and three large flat-screen televisions. Standing in the middle of this pathetic mountain of material possessions were my mother, my father, my brother Liam, and my sister Chloe.
A pair of local county sheriff deputies stood by their patrol cruisers near the driveway, arms crossed, watching the spectacle with bored expressions.
When my SUV glided to a stop at the curb and I stepped out, wearing a sharp, tailored Chanel pantsuit and oversized designer sunglasses, the entire family froze.
My mother’s face went from pale ash to an ugly, mottled crimson.
“Maya!” Eleanor shrieked, marching across the damp grass toward me, her diamond rings flashing in the morning sun. “You heartless, ungrateful little bitch! Where have you been? We’ve been calling you for hours! The sheriff’s deputies came and threw us out! Look at our things! Look at us!”
I didn't move. I stood by the open door of my Mercedes, casually adjusting my sunglasses.
Liam stormed behind her, his face twisted in desperate rage. “You planned this! You knew the bank was moving in, didn't you? You sat in that guest house for a year spying on us, and the moment Mom handed you that trash bag, you let the hammer drop!”
“Liam, please,” my father wheezed, stumbling forward. Richard looked ten years older than he had a week ago; his posture was caved in, his expensive silk tie loosened around a trembling neck. “Maya… please. You have money, don't you? I saw the way you lived when we visited downtown once—wait, no, you don't have money, but… but you know people. You can call the bank. You can buy the house back. Please, help your father.”
I looked at the four of them.
My mother, who had tossed a black garbage bag onto my plate and called me a parasite.
My brother, who had mocked my supposed poverty and cheered for my expulsion.
My sister, who had sipped champagne while watching me humiliated.
My father, who had committed federal financial fraud and tried to use my name as collateral for his reckless syndicate loans.
They looked pathetic. Stripped of their manicured landscaping, their gated perimeter, and their borrowed status, they were just ordinary, small-minded people drowning in the very chaos they had created.
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“Help you?” I asked, my voice cutting through the humid suburban air like a scalpel.
“We’re your family!” Chloe cried out, wiping mascara-stained tears from her cheeks. “How can you just stand there looking so smug while we’re standing on the grass with our entire lives packed in boxes?”
