Chapter 11 - The Final Delusion-11
Thursday evening was spent in a bizarre, surreal quiet at Birchwood Lane.
When I returned to the house at seven o'clock, my mother and sister were sitting in the living room surrounded by stacks of new clothing boxes, expensive leather bags, and a massive chilled bottle of imported champagne resting in a silver ice bucket on the coffee table.
They were in a state of absolute euphoria.
"Gavin!" Margaret squealed, her face flushed with wine as she waved a gold-rimmed glass at me. "Tomorrow is the big day! Friday morning! Have you spoken to the corporate lawyers in Toronto today?!"
"I spoke to them an hour ago, Mom," I lied smoothly, hanging my coat on the hall rack. "The four-hundred-thousand-dollar transfer is fully queued. The funds will hit the account at nine o'clock sharp tomorrow morning."
Paige let out a loud, high-pitched scream of excitement, throwing her hands in the air. "YES! OMG, Mom! We are rich! I already called the car dealership downtown! I told them we are picking up the convertible at ten o'clock tomorrow!"
"And I booked us a private suite at the resort in Miami for next week!" Margaret boasted, taking a deep gulp of her champagne. "Oh, Gavin, you really are a savior! I knew sending you to Canada was the best decision I ever made!"
I looked at my mother—sitting there in her silk dress, drinking seventy-dollar champagne, utterly convinced that she had successfully stolen my life's work while hiding an illegal biohazard vault in her basement.
"You really think you deserve all of this, don't you, Mom?" I asked softly, stepping into the living room and looking around at the grand decorations.
"Of course we do!" Margaret said indignantly, setting her glass down. "We are the Vance family! We are built for success! Unlike that weak, useless girl you brought home four years ago."
Paige snorted with laughter. "Ugh, don't even talk about Gwen! She's probably rotting in some charity ward right now where she belongs. Good riddance!"
I stared at the two of them for a long, silent moment. I felt no anger left inside me. No sadness. No regret. All that remained was a vast, icy expanse of absolute clarity.
"You know, Paige," I said, my voice dangerously calm, "Gwen sold her long, beautiful hair for a hundred and fifty dollars just to find out if she was going to die."
Paige rolled her eyes dismissively. "Oh, boo-hoo! She was always so dramatic! If she wanted money, she should have worked for it instead of leeching off my brother!"
"She didn't leech off me, Paige," I corrected quietly. "Every single dollar you spent on that luxury truck out front, every piece of gold hanging around Mom's neck, and every drop of champagne in that glass came from my hands. Hands that were freezing in minus-twenty-degree ice while you two lived off my blood."
Margaret frowned, sensing the sudden, sharp shift in the room's temperature. She sat up straighter, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"Gavin, why are you talking like that?" Margaret asked, a subtle edge of annoyance entering her voice. "Are you getting emotional on us? After everything I did for you? Raising you? Keeping this house running?"
"You didn't keep the house running, Mom," I said, turning my back on them and heading toward the stairs. "You just ran out of time."
"What is that supposed to mean?!" Margaret shouted after me, her voice rising with anger. "Gavin! Come back here!"
I didn't answer. I walked up the stairs to my room, closed the door, and locked it from the inside.
I didn't pack a bag. I didn't organize my clothes. I sat on the edge of the bed in the dark room, watching the hands on the wall clock sweep steadily toward midnight.
Nine hours left.
May you like
Downstairs, I could hear my mother and sister continuing to drink, laughing loudly, making grand plans for the fortune they believed was waiting for them at dawn.
They slept like babies that night, completely unaware that the sun rising tomorrow would be the very last time they ever saw the light of freedom.
