“That’s exactly what it looks like,” he agreed. “And I have to say—your parents are lucky they weren’t shot. The homeowner is a legal gun owner. He came in, heard the noise, and called 911 from his car. If he’d walked in—”
I opened my eyes, suddenly nauseous.
My parents could have been killed. Over a vendetta. Over money. Over Clara.
After I hung up, I sat frozen until Julian came out of his office and saw my face.
“What happened?” he asked immediately, crossing the room.
I told him, and as I spoke, his expression shifted from confusion to shock to a kind of quiet fury.
“That’s insane,” he said. “They could have gotten themselves killed. Or killed someone else.”
“I know,” I whispered. My hands were shaking. “They thought it was my house.”
Julian sat beside me and took my hand like he could anchor me to the couch.
“What do you need?” he asked.
I stared at the wall, seeing my mother’s proud face when she said private investigator, hearing my father’s voice saying you’re no longer part of this family.
“I need this to be real,” I said softly. “I need there to be consequences that don’t magically disappear because they’re my parents.”
And for the first time, I said something out loud that I’d never dared to say before, even in my own head.
“I don’t think they love me,” I said. “Not in the way parents are supposed to.”
Julian didn’t argue. He didn’t say, I’m sure they do, deep down. He just squeezed my hand tighter.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”
Over the next few weeks, I got updates. The legal system moved slowly, but reality didn’t. My parents were facing serious charges. Their lawyer negotiated a plea deal to avoid jail time, but it came with restitution—full restitution—for the homeowner.
Forty thousand in damage, plus legal fees, plus court costs. It climbed close to sixty thousand total.
A friend from back home, Caitlyn, called me with the rest of the story like she was delivering gossip, except her voice kept catching, like even she couldn’t believe it.
“Lara,” she said, “they had to sell their house.”
I sat down at my kitchen table—Julian’s table, technically—and felt something sharp twist in my chest.
“They said it was the only house they had,” I murmured.