Because no matter how toxic someone is, the word dying still reaches into you.
I replied with one sentence.
I’ll come by Saturday.
Part 3
On Saturday morning, I sat in my car outside my parents’ house for ten minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles went pale. The neighborhood looked smaller than I remembered, like the houses had shrunk while I’d grown up. The paint on the siding was duller. The lawn was patchier. Even the air felt heavier.
Then I noticed the driveway.
Two cars sat there like trophies: Clara’s brand-new Porsche and Michael’s pristine Mercedes, both polished to a shine that screamed money. The sight hit me like a slap. If this was truly life and death, they had an interesting way of prioritizing.
I forced myself out of the car and walked up the steps. My mother opened the door before I knocked, like she’d been watching through the curtains.
She looked older. Not just older in the normal way—tired older. New lines around her eyes. Her hair thinner. Her smile hesitant.
“Lara,” she said, voice shaky. “Thank you for coming.”
Behind her, the living room was staged like an intervention. My father sat in his usual chair, face grim. Clara sat on the couch beside Michael, eyes red and puffy like she’d been crying for hours. Michael’s arm was around her shoulder, protective and theatrical.
They all looked at me like I was the missing piece they’d been waiting to snap back into place.
“What’s going on?” I asked, staying standing. I didn’t want to get comfortable. Comfort in this house used to be a trap.
My mother’s eyes filled immediately.
“It’s about Clara,” she said. “She’s in serious trouble.”
Clara stared at her hands. My father cleared his throat.
“Her business went under three months ago,” he said. “The bank took the house. She owes money to… people.”
I felt a flicker of vindication that I hated. I didn’t want Clara to fail. I just wanted my family to stop treating my responsibility like it was to clean up after her.
“I’m sorry,” I said carefully. “That’s awful. But what does it have to do with me?”
Clara finally looked up. Her voice was barely a whisper.
“One hundred and fifty thousand,” she said.
I blinked. “You owe one hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”
Michael answered for her, of course.
“Private investors,” he said. “They’re not the kind of people who accept ‘I’ll pay you later.’”