Kiyoko B. Sisk

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12/09/2026

For fifteen years, my family watched their wallets around me, convinced I was a thief. Then the old mahogany desk gave up its secret.

The grandfather clock in the hallway struck seven, but the chime was drowned out by the clattering of silverware in the dining room. I stood quietly in the doorway, watching my family gather around the oak table, bathed in the warm light of the crystal chandelier. Fidel was laughing loudly at something Sakura had just said, his head thrown back. Pike was pouring a rich red wine, careful not to spill a drop on the pristine tablecloth. Golden was passing a steaming bowl of roasted vegetables, her diamond rings glinting. And at the head of the table sat Shanahan, smiling that serene, untouchable smile.

I stepped into the room, and the laughter immediately faded into an awkward, strained murmur. Sakura casually reached down and pulled her designer handbag closer to her chair. Golden focused intensely on her plate, refusing to meet my eyes. Pike cleared his throat, suddenly finding the vintage label on his wine bottle fascinating.

Only Shanahan looked directly at me. He offered a tight, patronizing nod.

"Find a seat, Alexandra," he said, his voice dripping with forced patience. "We were just about to serve the roast."

I didn't move toward the empty chair at the far end of the table. I just watched them, letting the crushing weight of the last fifteen years settle over the room.

Fifteen years. That was exactly how long I had been the family pariah. The designated thief.

It happened the summer I turned nineteen. Grandfather had just passed away, and the massive estate was in chaos. One morning, the heavy wall safe in the master bedroom was found wide open. Grandfather's prized vintage watch collection, a dozen rare pieces he had spent a lifetime acquiring, was gone. The family panicked. The police were called. But it was Shanahan who miraculously cracked the case. He walked into the living room holding the empty velvet display boxes, his face a perfect mask of sorrow. He claimed he had found them shoved under my bed, hidden beneath my winter sweaters.

I denied it until my throat was raw. I swore I had never touched the safe. But my desperate words meant absolutely nothing against the physical evidence Shanahan held, or the slick narrative he spun. He reminded everyone that I had been complaining about my rising tuition bills, perfectly framing me as the rebellious, ungrateful teenager who always wanted more.

Golden had cried dramatic tears, calling me a disgrace. Pike threatened to press criminal charges. Fidel looked at me with quiet disgust. And Sakura immediately ran upstairs to check her own jewelry box.

Shanahan smoothly played the merciful patriarch. He convinced the family not to involve the police, insisting we handle it internally to save our prestigious reputation. My punishment was absolute exile within my own bloodline. I was allowed to attend family gatherings, but I was treated like a stray dog that might bite.

For the first few years, the humiliation was a literal ache in my chest. At Sakura's lavish wedding, I was excluded from all the family photos. When Golden bought her new house, she made a humiliating point of asking me to leave my purse in my car. Every holiday was a brutal gauntlet of whispered insults and heavily guarded possessions.

I could have walked away and started a new life completely free from their toxic judgment. But I stubbornly refused to let Shanahan's lie be the final word. So, I showed up. Every single time. I sat in the corner in dead silence, forcing them to look at the person they had so easily condemned.

Today was the fifteenth anniversary of Grandfather's passing. We were gathered at the old estate to finalize the lucrative sale of the property. Shanahan had specifically tasked me with packing up the dusty old study, making a very loud point to tell Fidel to lock up the good silver before I started.

I spent the afternoon boxing up heavy encyclopedias. Around five o'clock, I struggled to move the massive mahogany desk away from the wall to reach a fallen book. The desk was a solid block of wood, completely unmoved for decades. I put my shoulder against it, braced my feet, and pushed.

With an echoing crack, a long piece of decorative molding snapped loose. I knelt to pick it up and noticed a dark, narrow gap where the solid wood had been. It was a cleverly hidden compartment, built directly into the thick side of the desk.

I reached inside. My fingers brushed against dry, crumbling wood, and then something completely smooth.

It was a small, dark red notebook. The leather cover was heavily worn and cracked.

I opened it, expecting to find Grandfather's boring gardening notes. Instead, I saw Shanahan's precise, instantly recognizable handwriting.

The first few pages were mundane. But as I flipped toward the middle of the book, the dates caught my eye. July of that exact year. The very month the expensive watches vanished.

There were highly detailed entries. A meticulous list of buyers. Private collectors in the city. The exact amounts of cash received for each specific watch. A gold chronograph for twelve thousand dollars. A silver pocket watch for eight thousand dollars.

And on the very bottom of a page, a brief, sterile note: *Moved empty boxes to A's room. They believed it without question.*

I stood frozen in the dusty study for a long time. My hands weren't shaking at all. A strange, cold calm settled over my entire body. The absolute truth had been sitting in this room, locked behind a piece of wood, for fifteen long years.

I didn't yell. I didn't run down the hall screaming for vindication. I carefully closed the little red book, wiped the thick dust from the cover, and walked down the corridor, listening to the sound of my family laughing without me.

Now, I stood in the dining room.

"Alexandra," Pike said, his tone sharpening. "Sit down. You're making everyone uncomfortable."

"I was packing up the study," I said, my voice perfectly steady, cutting through the ambient noise of the room. "The old mahogany desk was too heavy. A panel broke when I pushed it."

Golden rolled her eyes. "Well, just add the repair cost to her tab."

I ignored her. I kept my eyes fixed intensely on Shanahan. He was still holding his wine glass, his expression politely bored.

I walked the entire length of the table. Sakura pulled her chair in even tighter. Fidel stopped chewing his food.

I reached the head of the table. I looked down at Shanahan. The polite boredom on his face suddenly flickered, rapidly replaced by a sudden wariness. He didn't know what I had found, but he recognized the dangerous change in my posture.

I reached into my pocket.

I pulled out the dark red notebook and placed it gently on the pristine white tablecloth, right next to his dinner plate.

12/09/2026

For fifteen years, my family labeled me a thief and banished me. Then we moved my late father's heavy oak desk and uncovered the truth.

The air in the house still smelled exactly as it had the night I was thrown out. A suffocating blend of lemon polish, stale pipe to***co, and unspoken resentment. I stood in the foyer, tracking moisture onto the hardwood floor, listening to the muted hum of conversation drifting from the parlor. I had not stepped foot inside this residence in fifteen years. Not for the holidays, and not even for the funeral when Ford passed away six months ago. I was the exiled daughter, the black sheep who had supposedly stolen from her own blood.

Althea appeared at the end of the hallway. My mother stopped abruptly, her sharp eyes scanning my worn jacket before settling on my face. She offered no smile. She simply crossed her arms and let out a long breath. The silence between us stretched, heavy and jagged, until Gabriela stepped out from the kitchen behind her. Gabriela, a longtime family friend who had practically raised us, offered me a hesitant nod. She was the only reason I had received a call about the estate clearing today. She had quietly insisted I have a chance to claim my childhood belongings before the house was sold.

I walked past Althea and entered the main living room. Everett was sitting on the leather sofa, holding a crystal glass of amber liquid. My older brother had always been the golden child, the perfect son with the perfect future. Beside him sat his wife, Denise, busily tapping away on a sleek tablet, ignoring my arrival. Everett looked up, his lips curling into a condescending smirk. He gave me a mock salute. I ignored him and focused my attention on Schultz, the estate lawyer standing near the fireplace.

Schultz adjusted his glasses, announcing we needed to finish cataloging the study by the end of the afternoon. I volunteered to help, eager to escape the parlor. Everett laughed softly and muttered something to Denise about keeping an eye on the silver. I felt a hot spike of anger, but I bit the inside of my cheek and kept walking toward the heavy mahogany doors of the study.

The accusation had destroyed my life. Fifteen years ago, Ford's prized collection of nineteenth-century gold eagle coins vanished from his locked display case. I had packed a duffel bag that same evening, planning a weekend camping trip. The timing was circumstantial, but in this family, circumstances were enough for a conviction. Everett claimed he saw me lingering near the study late at night. Althea pointed to my rebellious streak and my refusal to follow their rigid rules.

The confrontation was swift and brutal. I was cornered in the kitchen, surrounded by furious faces. I pleaded with them, swearing my innocence, begging them to search my bags. They refused. Althea looked at me with absolute disgust and told me to leave and never return. They did not call the police, claiming they wanted to spare the family public humiliation, but the private punishment was devastating. I spent my twenties working grueling shifts at diners, struggling to pay rent, while Everett sailed through a prestigious university.

The study was dim, the velvet curtains drawn shut against the afternoon sun. The room was dominated by an enormous, antique wooden desk. Schultz handed me a clipboard and asked me to start listing the books on the lower shelves. Gabriela came in shortly after, carrying an empty cardboard box. We worked in relative silence for nearly an hour.

Eventually, Everett and Denise wandered in, looking bored. Everett leaned against the doorframe, watching me with that infuriating smirk. He made a loud comment about how some people just could not let go of the past. I gripped the edge of the shelf, my knuckles turning white, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Schultz sighed and announced we needed to move the massive desk away from the wall to check the baseboards. The piece was incredibly heavy, solid oak and brass. Everett reluctantly rolled up his sleeves to help, while Schultz and I took the other side. On the count of three, we threw our weight against the wood. The desk groaned, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. We pushed again, harder this time.

There was a sudden, sharp crack. A panel at the back of the left pedestal gave way under the shifting pressure. A small, dark object tumbled out from the secret cavity and hit the floor with a dull thud. A thick cloud of dust billowed into the air. We all froze. I knelt down and reached into the dust, my fingers closing around a small, leather-bound book. It was an old pocket diary. Beside it lay a bundle of faded pawn shop receipts, bound by a brittle rubber band that snapped as soon as I touched it.

I opened the little book. The pages were yellowed, the ink slightly faded, but the handwriting was unmistakable. It was precise, slanted, and immaculate. The exact handwriting I had seen on birthday cards and legal documents for my entire life. It was a detailed log of staggering gambling losses. Tens of thousands of dollars owed to people whose names were scribbled in the margins. And there, near the bottom of the third page, was the exact date the coins had vanished. Beside the date was a chillingly specific note: Gold eagles sold. Debt cleared.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I picked up one of the pawn shop receipts. The faded thermal print showed a transaction for a substantial amount of cash, and right at the bottom was Everett's signature. Fifteen years of poverty. Fifteen years of being treated like dirt. All of it because the perfect son had needed to cover his tracks. I slowly rose to my feet, clutching the objects in my hand. I looked up. Everett was staring at me, his smug expression melting into a mask of pure panic. I did not scream. I did not cry. I simply cleared my throat, locked eyes with my mother, and prepared to read the first entry aloud.

12/09/2026

For fifteen years, my entire family called me a thief. Then my father finally pried open grandmother's hidden lockbox at the anniversary dinner.

I sat at the furthest end of the mahogany dining table, staring at my untouched roast beef. It had been fifteen years since I was branded the thief of the family. Across from me, my sister Crystal held court, entertaining our relatives. She wore a pristine white dress, looking every bit the perfect golden child. My father, Ashby, and my mother, Casey, sat beside her, beaming with pride. Neither had looked in my direction since I arrived.

My uncle Hale and aunt Villanueva were engrossed in conversation with Crystal. Next to them, my cousin Eastman poured vintage red wine, carefully skipping my glass. I was thirty-two, yet this opulent room reduced me to a frightened teenager. I only came because it was the fifteenth anniversary of grandmother's passing, and attendance was strictly mandatory for the memorial.

The shadow over my life began the week before our grandmother passed away. She was bedridden, and the entire family was staying at the estate to care for her. Grandmother possessed a rare, antique diamond brooch that had been in our family for four generations. One afternoon, the brooch vanished without a single trace. I had unfortunately been the last person seen walking past her hallway.

When the frantic search yielded nothing, Crystal cornered my parents in the study. Tears streamed down her face as she swore she saw me slipping out of grandmother's room with the velvet box. She told Ashby and Casey she had overheard me talking about a gambling debt, claiming I needed quick cash. It was a vicious, calculated fabrication. I had no debts, and I hadn't even been inside the bedroom.

But Crystal was the high school valedictorian, the obedient daughter who never stepped out of line. The choice of who to believe was tragically easy. Ashby marched into my bedroom, purple with rage, and tore my belongings apart. When he didn't find the brooch, he instantly assumed I had fenced it. Casey wept uncontrollably, calling me a monster for stealing from a dying woman. I begged and swore on my life that I was innocent. But my voice meant absolutely nothing.

Hale and Villanueva were called in as witnesses while Ashby delivered his final verdict. I was allowed to stay until I graduated high school, but after that, I was financially cut off and ordered to leave for good. For fifteen years, I worked exhausting jobs to put myself through college. I spent every major holiday alone in a cramped, freezing apartment, while my family gathered around this very table. Whenever I tried to call Casey on her birthday, she would hang up the moment she heard my voice. Eastman once turned his grocery cart around to avoid acknowledging my existence.

The only reason I was allowed in the house tonight was because grandmother's will stipulated all living heirs must be present for the final memorial reading. The atmosphere was suffocating. I kept my eyes fixed on the china plate, counting the minutes until I could escape.

Suddenly, Ashby cleared his throat loudly and tapped his silver spoon against his wine glass. The cheerful chatter died down instantly. He stood up at the head of the table, his face uncharacteristically pale. He was holding a small, rusted metal lockbox covered in a thick layer of dust.

"Before we serve dessert," Ashby began, his voice strained and hollow, "I need to share something that happened this morning. As you all know, I hired contractors to repair the warped floorboards in the old library. When the workers pulled up the oak planks near the heating vent, they found this hidden underneath."

He placed the rusted box on the table. The dull thud echoed in the silent room. Casey frowned with a confused expression. Hale and Villanueva exchanged bewildered glances. Eastman stopped mid-pour, the wine bottle hovering over a glass.

"Grandmother used to hide things when her memory started fading," Ashby continued, his hands trembling. "The lock was entirely rusted through from a pipe leak. I managed to pry it open an hour ago. I thought it might be old letters or loose coins."

Ashby took a deep breath. He gripped the edges of the box and opened the lid. The hinges shrieked in protest. He reached inside and slowly pulled out a small, folded piece of yellowed paper. It looked stiff and brittle with age.

"It wasn't letters," Ashby said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "It is a transaction record from a prominent jewelry dealer downtown. Dated exactly two days before the brooch went missing."

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. I felt a sharp tightening in my chest. For fifteen agonizing years, the dark mystery of the missing heirloom had destroyed my youth. Now, the answer had literally been pulled from the foundation of the house itself.

Ashby meticulously unfolded the brittle slip. He reached into his pocket and put on his reading glasses. His eyes scanned the faded blue ink. I watched his expression shift from solemn curiosity to a look of absolute, devastating horror. The color drained from his cheeks, leaving him looking sickly and old. His jaw tightened so hard the muscles ticked frantically under his skin. He didn't look at me. He didn't look at Casey.

Ashby slowly turned his head, the paper shaking in his grip, and locked his eyes directly onto Crystal.

Crystal's radiant smile vanished in a fraction of a second. She sat frozen, her perfect posture suddenly rigid, her eyes wide with suffocating panic.

"Ashby?" Casey whispered, her voice trembling as she sensed the catastrophic shift in the room's energy. "What does it say?"

Ashby completely ignored his wife. He kept staring unblinkingly at his golden child. He held up the yellowed document, his hand shaking so violently the stiff paper fluttered in the silent air.

"Crystal," Ashby said, his voice cracking, entirely devoid of the warmth he usually reserved for her.

Crystal dropped her heavy silver fork. It hit her porcelain plate with a deafening clatter.

12/09/2026

For fifteen years I was the family thief, until an old home movie played at dinner and the real culprit walked onto the screen.

The clinking of silverware against fine china echoed in the suffocating silence of the dining room. I kept my eyes fixed on my plate, acutely aware of the invisible boundary line drawn around my chair. It had been fifteen years since I was last allowed to sit at this mahogany table. Fifteen years since I was branded the family thief and excised from their lives like a tumor.

Emanuel sat at the head of the table, his hair grayer, the lines around his mouth deeper. He was celebrating his seventieth birthday, a milestone my younger sister, Rasha, insisted I could not miss. Angelina, his second wife, had dragged me here, promising time healed all wounds. But looking around the room, I saw the wounds were as fresh as the day they were inflicted.

Aunt Petra sat across from me, her lips pursed tightly. Every time I reached for my water, she shifted her purse closer to her side. Next to her was Tara, my cousin, who offered a fragile, pitying smile before looking away. And then there was Fournier. My older brother. The golden boy. He sat to Emanuel's right, pouring wine with the easy confidence of a man who owned the world. He hadn't looked at me once.

I took a slow breath, trying to steady my heart. The memories of that humid summer night were pressing down on me. I was just seventeen when the family's world collapsed. Emanuel ran a modest construction firm, and had pulled a massive cash withdrawal—fifty thousand dollars—to secure a critical lumber shipment and cover Tara's university tuition. He kept it in a steel lockbox in his home office.

The next morning was pure chaos. Emanuel paced frantically, the lockbox hanging open, completely empty. The devastation in his eyes was unforgettable. But what hurt more was how quickly the blame shifted. Fournier stepped forward, his expression grave, and announced he had seen me creeping out of the office at three in the morning. He claimed I looked terrified and was hiding something under my shirt.

I vehemently denied it, swearing I was asleep the entire night. But Fournier's word was gospel. He was the responsible older brother, the future of the company. I was the rebellious teenager. The contrast was all Emanuel needed to authorize a full search of the house.

Fournier led the charge. He marched into my bedroom, yanked open my closet, and reached deep into the pocket of my winter coat. I watched in absolute horror as he pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. Exactly five thousand dollars. The supposed cut I kept for myself. The look of pure disgust on Emanuel's face shattered me. No amount of pleading could save me. I was told to pack a bag and leave. I spent my twenties bouncing between cheap apartments, working three jobs while bearing the weight of a crime I didn't commit.

"To Emanuel," Fournier's booming voice snapped me back to the present. He raised his crystal goblet. "A man who taught us the true meaning of integrity, of loyalty, and of protecting our own."

The sheer hypocrisy made my stomach churn. Fournier finally met my gaze as he took a sip of his wine, a faint smirk playing on the corner of his mouth. He was reminding me that this was his house, and I was merely an unwelcome ghost.

"Alright, enough stuffy speeches," Rasha announced, standing up to break the tension. "I have a surprise. While cleaning out the attic, I found the old media box. I hooked the vintage player up to the television."

She pointed to the large screen in the living room. "I thought it would be nice to take a trip down memory lane. I found a tape labeled Summer BBQ. It's a happy memory. We should watch it."

Emanuel offered a tight smile. Petra clucked her tongue but turned her chair toward the screen. Fournier leaned back, crossing his arms. I just wanted the ground to swallow me. Watching a time when my family still loved me felt like an exquisite form of torture.

Rasha pressed play, and the screen flickered to life. The video showed our backyard, bathed in golden sunlight. Emanuel was at the grill, flipping burgers. Tara was teaching a much younger Rasha how to do a cartwheel. And there I was. A seventeen-year-old kid, grinning at the camera, completely unaware that my entire life was about to be destroyed.

But then, the recording suddenly warped. The bright colors stretched and distorted before collapsing into a screen of aggressive, hissing static.

"Oh, hold on," Rasha said, tapping the remote frantically. "Let me fast forward."

"Leave it, Rasha," Emanuel sighed. "It's probably degraded."

"No, wait, the time stamp is still running," Tara pointed out, squinting at the screen.

The static cleared, but the summer afternoon was gone. The screen was now incredibly dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of the streetlamp outside. The camera had been left on its tripod in the living room, pointing directly down the hallway. Pointing directly at the closed door of Emanuel's home office.

The time stamp in the bottom corner pulsed with a glowing white font. It read: August fourteenth. Three twelve in the morning.

The exact night the fifty thousand dollars disappeared.

A profound, suffocating silence descended over the dining room. Nobody breathed. We were all staring at the screen, paralyzed by the sudden shift in reality. The only sound was the low hum of the television speakers.

On the screen, the handle of the office door slowly began to turn.

The wood creaked, a sound I had replayed in my nightmares a thousand times, and the door swung open. A silhouette emerged from the darkness of the office, stepping into the faint beam of the streetlamp. The figure paused, holding a heavy canvas duffel bag in one hand, and slowly turned to look down the hallway, their face coming into perfect, undeniable focus.

12/09/2026

For fifteen long years, my entire family believed I stole our hardware store's emergency funds, until an old filing cabinet was finally moved.

The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked with the same oppressive rhythm I remembered from my childhood. I stood in the foyer of the old family home, the scent of lemon polish and stale to***co washing over me, feeling like a ghost trespassing in a place I used to belong. It had been fifteen years since I was last allowed through that front door without a chaperone. Fifteen years since I was branded the family thief and quietly excised from every holiday, every celebration, and every meaningful milestone.

The annual memorial dinner for our grandfather was the only event I was permitted to attend, and even then, I was treated like a contagious disease. I was used to the silence by now. It was the same silence that had suffocated me on that terrible Tuesday a decade and a half ago.

The family hardware store had been our grandfather's pride, a fixture in the community that generated a modest but steady living for all of us. But fifteen years ago, the business hit a severe cash flow crisis. We had a reserve, a physical safety net of fifty thousand dollars kept in a floor safe beneath the office floorboards, intended for catastrophic emergencies. Then, the week before I was supposed to leave for college, the money vanished without a single trace.

I will never forget the emergency family meeting in this very dining room. Sage, my older sister and the one entrusted with the store's bookkeeping, sat at the head of the table with a stack of bank statements and printouts. She played her part perfectly. Her voice trembled as she explained the discrepancy. She dabbed her eyes as she pointed out that only three people had the combination, and she and our grandfather had been out of town that weekend. I was the only one left. I was the rebellious teenager, the one who wanted to escape the small town, the one who supposedly needed cash to start a new life in the city.

The evidence was entirely circumstantial, built on my proximity and a few manipulated spreadsheets Sage presented as absolute gospel. I pleaded with them. I begged Appleton and Benham to look deeper, to just listen to me. But Appleton stared at me with profound disappointment, and Benham told me to pack my things before they decided to involve the police. They offered me a choice: leave with nothing, or face a grand larceny charge.

I left with a single duffel bag. I built a life from absolute scratch, carrying the unbearable weight of a crime I did not commit. Over the years, Sage flourished. She took over the business entirely after our grandfather passed, all while I was politely informed that my presence at family gatherings was a burden they merely tolerated.

Now, the store was finally being sold to a developer, and the house was being cleared. As the outcast, I was assigned the dirty, physical labor no one else wanted to do. While Sage entertained the family upstairs, pouring expensive wine and sharing fond memories, I was banished to the basement to clear out the last of the old office furniture that had been moved to the house years ago.

The basement was damp, smelling of mildew and forgotten history. My task was to haul out a row of massive, olive-green steel filing cabinets that had sat untouched against the concrete foundation for over a decade. The rust had practically welded them to the floor. I braced my boots against the damp concrete, gripping the edge of the first cabinet, and pulled with everything I had. It shifted with a harsh, metallic screech, scraping against the stone.

As I angled it away from the wall to get a better grip, I heard a dull thud from inside the metal casing. The bottom drawer had always been jammed shut, assumed to be rusted off its tracks. I grabbed a pry bar from my tool belt and jammed it into the seam of the bottom drawer. I leaned my entire body weight onto the bar. The rusted metal groaned, popped, and finally gave way, the drawer sliding open in a cloud of ancient, gray dust.

It wasn't empty. Wedged all the way in the back, entirely concealed behind a false metal partition that had collapsed when I tilted the cabinet, was a heavy, dark green canvas-bound book.

I pulled it out, coughing as the dust settled. The canvas cover was stiff and thick, smelling of old paper and leather. I opened it carefully, the spine cracking in protest. My breath caught in my throat. It was a private, handwritten journal of accounts. The handwriting was neat, meticulous, and completely unmistakable. It was Sage's writing.

I flipped through the crisp, yellowing pages. This wasn't the sanitized, official record she had presented to the family. This was the raw, unedited truth detailing every illicit transfer and fake vendor invoice she had created. My hands began to shake as I found the exact month fifteen years ago.

There it was, recorded in sharp black ink. A detailed entry outlining the extraction of fifty thousand dollars from the floor safe. Below the amount was a bulleted list of instructions on how to alter the main accounting software, followed by an offshore routing number. Beside the entry was a chillingly simple note about ensuring my schedule aligned with the missing funds.

She had planned it. She had orchestrated the entire theft and deliberately framed me to cover her tracks, sitting in the very room above me and watching my life fall apart without a single shred of remorse.

The anger I had buried for fifteen years erupted, turning my vision sharp and clear. I closed the canvas book. The weight of it in my hands felt like an anchor, like a weapon, like absolute salvation.

I walked toward the wooden stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. I could hear the muted sounds of the gathering above. I reached the top of the stairs and pushed the basement door open, stepping into the bright hallway leading directly into the formal dining room.

Everyone was seated around the long oak table. Sage was at the head, holding a glass of red wine, smiling graciously at something Appleton had just said. The table was covered in fine china and a massive roast. I stepped into the doorway, the green canvas book gripped tightly in my right hand. The conversation sputtered and died as they noticed me standing there, covered in basement dust, my eyes locked entirely on my sister.

Without breaking eye contact, I walked straight to the head of the table. I raised the heavy canvas book and slammed it down flat in the dead center of the table, right between her wine glass and the roast.

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