Friday comes, eventually, a yellow promise pawing at the sky and my window.

The sun blinds me in a sea of orange and pink when I wake.

"Hello?" A woman's voice sails into the room.

I shell up like a box turtle.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Mom says, a smile on her face as bright as that pesky sun. "It's almost lunchtime, but I thought I'd let you rest. We've all been through so much yesterday, after all."

"Hi." I look down at the sweatshirt I slept in.

There's a spot of grease on the sleeve from the grilled cheese from the diner I ate at last night. Didn't feel much like attending the fake family dinner.

The t-shirt won't do.

Red alert — I didn't bring enough clothes with me. Didn't think I'd be staying that long.

"Your room is still exactly the same as you left it, honey." Mom wrings her hands. "Your father insisted..."

Of course he did.

But I might still find some clothes that fit me, given that I haven't changed on the outside in the past decade.

On the inside — well, that's a whole another story.

My Be right down! Is mom's cue to give me some privacy.

I can't help feeling sluggish. A hangover from the pity party I threw myself last night. My skull is being cleaved in two.

I wrestle my hair into a fresh bun, but I refuse to use the tub for the time being.            

When Victor, my father, showed me the bathroom attached to my room with its own Jacuzzi, he said, Bet you feel like Cinderella, because he's an idiot.

This house was made for someone without a soul. So I guess it makes sense that my father wanted it so badly. I can imagine how his eyes lit up when he walked through the five-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath new construction.

This place. It always felt like a costume I was forced to wear.

Opulent. Show-offy. Screams money, but it doesn't whisper 'home.' Screams wealth, Victor's wealth, but it whispers nothing of me. It is too much, too loud, a constant reminder of a life I never truly belonged to. Everywhere I look, it's Victor's taste, Victor's statement. It's all Victor, a monument to his ego. None of it feels like me.

This isn't a home; it's a trophy case, and I'm just another gilded object within it.

It's a stage, and I'm just playing a part; entering someone else's life, a life I never chose.

First, I call my sweet elderly neighbor and leave a message on her machine saying that I won't be on the 3:59 Greenville to Montreal flight this afternoon. Something's come up unexpectedly, I'm staying for some days after the funeral, don't worry, I'm fine. Also, I've been feeding the one-eyed cat that hangs out under the porch. Sorry. There are some cans of Friskies under my bed, if you wouldn't mind. Sorry again.

Then I call Jana, my manager at Saint Mitch hospital, and tell her I need some more time off because of my father's death. She tells me to take all the time I need. What I really need is the money, but I take her word for it that my job will be waiting for me when I get back.

Finally, it's time to have lunch with everyone before the will reading.

The mere thought of facing my mother and my brother in that formal dining room feels like another performance of a role that isn't truly mine.

For almost every family like Eli's was, full of love and happiness, there was one like mine. Where the happy times were the frosting on a dessert, used to cover up the misshapen lump that hasn't come out of the oven properly.

The dining room at Carmichael Manor is, like everything else around here, a testament to my father's taste for grandeur.

A space designed to impress rather than invite intimacy. Crystal chandeliers, heavy and ornate, cast a cold, unwavering light across the polished oak table, long enough to seat a dozen, though today only four places are set.

The walls are adorned with portraits of stern-faced Carmichael ancestors, their painted eyes seeming to follow every hesitant movement. Heavy velvet drapes, the color of bruised plums, block out most of the sunshine, lending the room a perpetual twilight.

Mom sweeps in, waving her arms, the flowy sleeves of her frilly, fluffy blouse making her look like a deranged butterfly.

"Now, isn't it lovely that we are all finally gathered together here, today?" She dumps a floral centrepiece on the table — a forced burst of color amidst the somber faces and somber tones, whose fragrance does little to dispel the underlying tension.

"Hrmph." My brother, Tom, slumps in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest like a barricade.

Beside him, Beverly, his wife, sits quietly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her eyes, kind but downcast, meet mine with a fleeting, sympathetic glance before quickly returning to her plate. "That's a nice outfit, Rhiannon."

A peace offering of some sort. A bridge — between Tom and me.

She is a gentle presence, a silent observer in the storm of Carmichael emotions, her shyness amplifying the underlying discomfort.

My eyes dart down to my top. "Thanks. Dad—fuck—Victor chose it for me long time ago." One of my hands ball into a fist, knuckles pushing out like hilltops.

Mom flinches at the fuck. Oh come on, her daughter, aka me, has been away from home for a decade, and the part she finds unpalatable is this four-letter-word?

"I suppose Beverly is right, Rhiannon. You do look great," Tom says. "I guess ten years of no contact with your mother, your father and your brother is the best diet there is."

Someone drops a fork.

Beverly's face falls open. "Tom," she hisses, wounded-doe-eyed, staring at him. "You can't say that!"

Tom looks at me for a moment, then pushes out a laugh. "Oh, don't be silly." He grins. "Rhiannon knows I'm only joking, don't you?"

I grin back, something sharp about it. I make sure Tom feels it.

Seems the Carmichael family has more land mines lying around, live and ticking even after ten years. We haven't even got to our starters and one has already blown up.

The air is thick with unspoken words, a palpable weight that even the arrival of the catered lunch seems unable to lift.

Five caterers are bustling around in the kitchen, heating up the pre-prepared meals in the oven.Meanwhile, trays of meticulously arranged salads, cold cuts, and delicate pastries sit on a side table, emphasising our family's wealth even in our grief. Yet the atmosphere feels sterile, devoid of the warmth a home-cooked meal might have offered.

Lorraine's smile is too bright, her offers of water and bread to Beverly too frequent, a desperate attempt to smooth over the jagged edges of our strained family dynamic. She seems determined to create an illusion of normalcy, a fragile facade against the raw grief and simmering resentments.

Yet this isn't a family gathered for a comforting meal; it's an orchestrated tableau, each of us playing a part in a drama we haven't chosen.

"Would anyone like some more wine?" Mom's grasps the neck of the bottle servilely, as we sample the food. "Rhi? Tom?"

"Actually, you know what? Can I have something stronger?" I say, throwing out a bomb myself.

"Um, I...," Mom begins, just as Tom huffs, "No," giving me that you-get-this-from-our-father look.

"Maybe another time. And Tom... please," Mom adds.

I guess the poor woman thought this meal would be a cease-fire, everyone on our best behavior, but course one of three and look where we are already.

"It's OK, Mom. My dearest brother would never hurt me," I say, no, I announce it, like he wasn't right here. Tom tenses; I can feel it in the air around us.

Opposite, Mom passes the platter to Beverly first. She smiles politely, spooning two piles into a mound on her plate, rockfalls of rice and peas.

"So, Thomas." I spear a piece of chorizo, ready to unearth the hatchet. It could be wine, it could be something else, but I'm pissed at the way my big brother's been treating me. "Mom tells me you've been married for two years, you haven't mentioned her to me yet. Even moved her into our house for a few months?" The words dip up like a question, needling him on purpose.

"Why would you tell her all these details, mom? What the hell? Whose side are you on? It's my life, and I... She's practically a stranger." Tom's upper lip trembles, and I can make out the ghost of a pathetic moustache he's probably been trying to grow since high school.

Mom takes a sharp swig of her wine. "I hadn't found the right time to bring it up yet, in private. Rhiannon is not a stranger."  She leans into the word. "I thought this would bring you closer. Help you catch up faster."

"Easy, big brother. Just making conversation." I stand up, and let my fork dangle, scrape the plate. "That's what you do at family luncheons. You've hardly been in the house since I returned, so we haven't had many opportunities to talk in private. Become less of a strangers to one another." I lean on the word the same way Mom had.

Tom's hands drop into his lap, tightening into fists, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

No part of the table is safe from outbreaks and flare-ups, clearly. They are everywhere since Victor died, and since my returnal. Tom must think everything is my fault though I don't quite know how yet, tension simmering just below the surface.

"That's not funny, Rhiannon. Do me a favour, shut up, and sit down," Tom spits out, his voice low and venomous.

A small sounds escapes Beverly. "Please don't speak to her like that," she murmurs, her eyes suddenly watery. Her hand, pale and hesitant, reaches across the table towards Tom's arm.

Tom's wineglass tips over. The deep red liquid surges across, blooming like a grotesque flower. A dropped fork, its tines gleaming crimson in the spill, lies like a bloody instrument reaching for me.

Something in the sheer absurdity of it — the anger, the spilled wine, the silent accusation — snaps. A laugh bubbles up inside me, a hysterical, uncontrollable sound that bursts from my chest.

At the same instant, a sob tears from Mom. Her face crumples, and tears stream down her cheeks. "Oh, please," she gasps. "I just wanted a nice lunch."

That's our cue. Tom and I both fall silent, the remnants of our argument hanging in the air. A wave of guilt washes over me as I watch Mom's shoulders shake.

Tom, looking equally uncomfortable, clears his throat.

We both start to murmur apologies, offering her our napkins, trying to soothe her distress.

"Mom, I'm sorry," I say, my laughter now feeling like a cruel echo. Tom mumbles something similar, his usual gruffness softened.

Just as Mom starts to regain a semblance of composure, a knock echoes through the hallway.

The front door opens.

Victor's long-term-partner-slash-lawyer, and, coincidentally, Eli's dad, stands in the doorway, his briefcase in hand.

The will reading is about to begin.

***

Daniel Kane hasn't aged a day in the ten years since I last saw him. He's still lean, dressed in those too-tight dark blue jeans and a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

His dark skin is smooth, and his wiry hair is gelled to the side. The thin, rectangular glasses perched on his nose make him look like a serial killer.

"Rhiannon," he nods politely and I nod back, at a loss for words.

"Alright, everyone," Mr. Kane says, gathering the attention. "Victor's will is located in his office. If you'd follow me."

We all rise, a silent procession moving through the mansion. As we ascend the grand staircase, Beverly and I fall slightly behind.

She pauses near a huge arched window that overlooks the manicured gardens. The natural light streaming in catches the delicate fabric of her turtleneck. My breath catches. Just beneath the collar, despite the high neckline, I see it — a dark bruise forming on her throat, the blues and reds of a dying universe.

"Beverly," I say softly, my eyes fixed on the faint discoloration peeking above her collar. "What happened there? Are you alright?"

Beverly's hand instinctively goes to her neck, her fingers brushing the fabric. She offers a quick, tight smile. "Oh, this? Nothing, really. You know how it is in pregnancy. I just bruise so easily these days. Bumped into something, I'm sure."

I watch her, unconvinced. My mind races.

Tom. Dammit.

He's always had a temper, a violent streak. I remember the slammed doors, the shouting matches growing up.

Could he...? The thought sends a cold wave through me.

Beverly seems so fragile, so sweet. But I don't say anything aloud. It's not my place.

"We'd better catch up with the others." Her gaze drifts away from me, and she caresses her belly. Then, she absently trails her fingernails along the edge of the wide windowsill.

They snag on something hidden behind the massive, leafy fronds of a potted monstera plant. Beverly  reaches in, a flicker of surprise crossing her face, and pulls out a dusty, multi-colored jawbreaker.

She stares at it, a small, almost childlike wonder in her eyes.

"Oh," she murmurs, turning it over in her palm.

Oh wow. I can't believe what I'm seeing. That jawbreaker. It's still there!

Cindy's favorite hiding spot for sweets whenever we had pajama parties. We were maybe ten years old. How could it still be there, tucked away behind that monstrous plant after all this time? A strange wave of nostalgia, sharp and unexpected, washes over me.

"You found that there?" I ask, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping me. "That used to be our secret stash. Cindy and mine."

Understanding a puzzled look in her eyes, I clarify: "Cindy is... Was my best friend. I still remember the first summer her mother let her stay over at my place. The first time she slept at the Carmichael mansion! Cindy and I watched Mulan twice because we didn't want to go to sleep, our mouths white from the jawbreakers."

"It's a lovely story."

"Coming, Bev?" Tom's voice sails down the bannister, somehow kinder, more tender when he is addressing his wife.

"We'll be right up!"

Stepping into my father's office feels like stepping back into a cage. The heavy oak door creaks shut behind me, sealing us in with the ghosts of his authority. The air is impregnated with the scent of old leather and expensive cologne, a smell that always made my stomach clench.

This room... this was his domain. His command center.

And for me, it was often the place of reprimands. I can still feel the sting of his words echoing in the silence, the disappointment in his eyes when he caught me playing hide-and-seek in here as a child. Guess my laughter was deemed an unacceptable disruption to his important work.

The vast desk, now cleared for Mr. Kane's papers, still looms large, a symbol of the power Victor Carmichael wielded — that power that even in death seems to cast a long shadow over me.

We're all seated around a smaller, more formal table that Mr.Kane has cleared. The heavy silence punctuated only by the rustle of legal papers in his hands.

Daniel sits at the head of the table, the dim light from the desk lamp glinting off his unsettling glasses. His gelled hair catches the light, making him look even more severe. He clears his throat, the sound amplified in the tense atmosphere, and begins to read in a measured, theatrical tone.

"The Last Will and Testament of Victor Alistair Carmichael..." Mr. Kane's voice drones on for a few formalities before he reaches the heart of the matter.

Daniel continues, his eyes now fixed on Tom, who sits stiffly, his jaw tight. "All of my shares in Carmichael & Co. Upstate — Real Estate Agency, representing controlling interest in the company, will be transferred to my son, Thomas Carmichael. In their entirety."

His professional facade cracks for just a moment. A flush creeps up his neck and spreads across his face, turning it a mottled red. His eyes, sharp and calculating behind those glasses, widen, a flicker of surprise – no, wait, more like shock and perhaps even anger – flashing within them.

Daniel Kane's jaw tightens, and his hands, which had been holding the will so steadily, clench.

Yet just as quickly as it appeared, the redness begins to recede, his expression smoothing back into a mask of polite neutrality.

He says nothing, simply adjusting his glasses and continuing to read as if nothing untoward had occurred.

A muscle twitches in Tom's cheek. He doesn't say anything, but there's a subtle shift in his posture, a barely perceptible relaxing of his shoulders.

The company. His inheritance. The power Victor wielded, now his.

Next, Daniel's gaze softens slightly as it lands on Lorraine, who sits with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes wide, dreamy, and a little lost. "My various bank accounts, held at Wells Fargo Bank and Bank of America in Gaffney, shall be divided equally among my wife, Lorraine Carmichael, my daughter, Rhiannon Carmichael, and my son, Thomas Carmichael."

Finally, he looks up, his gaze sweeping over each of us in turn, lingering for a moment on...

Me.

He scans the document, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as he takes in the unexpected clause.

His head snaps up from the paper, his eyes locking onto me with an intensity that makes me feel like a specimen under a microscope.

It's not just surprise; it's a look of utter disbelief, as if I'd materialized out of thin air.

The man blatantly stares at me, his composure momentarily shattered, like he's just seen a raven fly out of a snowdrift – something so incongruous, so utterly out of place, that it defies logic.

Daniel Kane's mouth tightens almost imperceptibly, a muscle twitching in his jaw, before he schools his features back into a semblance of professional detachment and continues reading.

"I hereby bequeath my primary residence, located at 1401 Twin Bridge Road, Gaffney, South Carolina, to... my daughter." He gulps.

"Rhiannon Carmichael."

A pin could drop and shatter the silence.

I've heard and processed maybe about twenty percent of what Daniel Kane has said since we sat down in Victor's makeshift office, this leather-and-mahogany prison.

But this... This was unmissable.

My heart speed-bags in my chest.

"W-what?" My voice comes out dry and raspy. My nails find the spot on the side of my jeans that's fraying, as I self-soothe.

I focus on my old bike that waves at me through the open window and I picture Cindy, happy and carefree.

My bestie, with her scraped-up elbows and legs from falling off her bike, and her pink mouth smelling of fake strawberries, from the Lip Smacker lip balm she carried in her pocket everywhere so her sister couldn't steal it.

The image momentarily calms me down as I stare at the rest of my family.

Tom's bottom lip is unstuck, falling open.

Mom's fingers drum the table — dancing spiders.

Beverly sits straight as a meerkat.

No one moves, human marble chess pieces pointing at each other, standing in their own squares of the black-and-white tile.