Chapter 4 - The Supermarket Standoff
“Let go of my arm,” I said.
My voice wasn't loud, but it was flat, devoid of the panic he was expecting.
Greg didn't release his grip. He was thirty years old, broad-shouldered, wearing an expensive wool coat that smelled faintly of brand-new retail leather. His grip tightened around my wrist, pressing my bone against the band of my watch.
“You think you’re better than everyone else, don't you?” he snarled, leaning down so his face was inches from mine. “You’re sitting on twenty million dollars while your sister is having panic attacks every single night! Her mother has high blood pressure! You’re tearing that family apart out of pure spite!”
The driver’s door of the BMW swung open, and Melissa stepped out into the freezing wind, her oversized designer sunglasses perched on top of her head despite the gray clouds.
“Greg, don't make a scene!” she called out, though she was looking around the parking lot to see if anyone was watching. When she saw a few shoppers turning their heads, her expression instantly melted into a mask of tearful martyrdom.
“Claire,” Melissa pleaded, walking toward us with her hands clasped. “Please! Just listen to him! We’re family! Greg is trying to protect me! The wedding venue is going to cancel our date on Friday because the second installment bounced! Dad said his credit lines are locked! All we need is eighty thousand dollars! That’s pocket change to you! Why are you punishing me for having a life?”
I looked down at Greg’s hand still wrapped around my wrist.
“Greg,” I said calmly, “there are three high-definition security cameras positioned directly above this entrance. There is also an off-duty Henrico police officer standing behind the customer service desk fifty feet away. If you do not remove your hand from my body in three seconds, I will scream for that officer, and you will spend the night in the county lockup on a felony assault charge.”
Greg’s eyes flickered upward toward the surveillance dome mounted under the grocery store awning.
His fingers twitched. He let go of my wrist as if it were a burning wire.
“You’re sick,” he muttered, taking a step back and rubbing his hands together. “You’re an unhinged, bitter psycho.”
I didn't rub my wrist. I didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing that he had hurt me.
“Melissa,” I said, turning my eyes to my sister.
She flinched slightly, startled by the directness of my gaze.
“When Noah was three,” I said, my voice cutting through the hum of idling cars and grocery cart wheels, “he swallowed a penny. Do you remember that?”
Melissa blinked, bewildered. “What? What does that have to do with anything?”
“He was turning blue on my kitchen floor,” I continued, never taking my eyes off hers. “Ethan was out of town. I called you because you lived four minutes away and I needed someone to drive while I kept his airway clear until the ambulance met us. Do you remember what you told me?”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“You told me you were in the middle of getting a chemical peel and your aesthetician said you couldn't sweat for forty-eight hours,” I said. “Noah survived because my neighbor heard me screaming and kicked my front door open.”
“Claire, that was three years ago!” she cried out, her voice shrill. “Why do you bring up ancient history? I had an appointment!”
“Because you have always been this person,” I said. “You were this person when we were children, you were this person when my babies died, and you are this person today in a grocery store parking lot demanding eighty thousand dollars of blood money for a wedding party.”
“It’s not blood money!” Melissa shrieked, losing every shred of her fragile composure. A woman loading bags into a minivan two spaces over stopped and stared. “The court gave it to you! You didn't work for it! You didn't sweat for it! Ethan’s dead! He doesn't need it! Those kids don't need it! But we’re alive, Claire! We are here right now!”
“And that,” I said softly, “is your tragedy. You are alive, and yet you have no soul at all.”
I picked up the undamaged bag of groceries from the asphalt, stepped around the yellow mess of the broken eggs, and walked toward my modest five-year-old Subaru.
“Claire!” she screamed behind me, her voice cracking with fury. “Don't you walk away from me! Dad is going to lose the office building! If he goes under, it’s your fault! Do you hear me? Your fault!”
I unlocked my car, placed the groceries on the passenger seat, got in, and shut the door.
Through the rearview mirror, I watched Greg roughly grab Melissa’s arm, steering her back toward the BMW while she kicked the front tire in a childish tantrum.
My hands on the steering wheel were steady.
For the first time since the trooper had knocked on my door on June twenty-fourth, I didn't feel the crushing weight of grief paralyzing my limbs. Instead, I felt something new, clean, and dangerous: purpose.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Marcus.
May you like
“Marcus,” I said when he answered. “Move the press conference up. I don't want to wait until next month. We do it this Thursday.”
***
