Chapter 8 - Sharon’s Siege
The knocking began at eight that night.
It wasn't the tentative tap of a visitor; it was the frantic, rhythmic slamming of someone who believed they owned the property behind the door.
"Clara! Open this door right now! Clara Jane!"
I didn't open the door. I walked to the entryway, checked the peep-hole, and saw Sharon.
She was unrecognizable. Her hair, usually sprayed into an immovable silver-blonde helmet, was stringy and disheveled. Her designer sunglasses were missing, revealing eyes swollen with tears and panic. Her cardigan was buttoned crookedly.
"Go away, Sharon," I said through the solid wood.
"Clara, please!" Her voice broke into a desperate wail. "The police were at the house! They have a warrant for Kayla! She’s hiding in her old bedroom, having a complete nervous breakdown! She’s hyperventilating, Clara—she can't breathe!"
"Then take her to the emergency room," I replied coldly. "The nurses there are very good at handling people who can't breathe."
"How can you be so cruel?" Sharon sobbed, pressing her forehead against the wood. "She is your sister! Your blood! Do you know what they’re saying about us online? People are driving past our house! Someone threw red paint at Donald’s car! He lost the marina contract today, Clara—thirty years of work, gone because of that stupid video!"
"Kayla pushed me," I said, my voice level, measured, and completely drained of sympathy. "I told her I couldn't swim. I swallowed water. I nearly died while you stepped out of the way to get a better camera angle."
The crying stopped instantly.
The silence that followed was sharp and ugly. When Sharon spoke again, the weeping mother was gone. The creature beneath—the vanity, the venom, the absolute narcissism—snapped back into focus.
"I made you," Sharon whispered, her voice low and venomous through the door panel. "You were nothing. A plain, awkward, quiet little thing that nobody looked at twice. We gave you everything. We let you play the saint, the martyr, the good little nurse while Kayla gave this family life! And now you want to tear it down because of a little splash? Because you felt left out?"
"You didn't give me everything, Sharon," I said. "You used my credit cards. You stole eighteen thousand dollars from Grandma's estate account to pay for Kayla’s lip fillers and bridal luggage."
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the wood.
"You... you checked that?"
"Detective Miller has the statements. The fraud division at the bank is opening a case tomorrow morning. Tell Kayla to pack a bag. The police aren't going to let her stay in her bedroom forever."
"You're a monster," Sharon hissed.
"No," I said, stepping back from the door. "I'm the daughter who learned how to breathe on her own."
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I walked back into the living room, turned off the hallway light, and let her scream until the building superintendent finally called the patrol officers to escort her off the premises.
***
