Chapter 5 - WHAT CHLOE KNEW
Chloe came to my hillside house the next morning. She arrived in
leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, and no makeup, looking nothing
like the polished girl who had smiled at me across the dinner table
while her mother ordered me out.
For several minutes, she stood just inside the entryway and stared
through the glass walls.
“So this is where you came,” she said. “Yes.” “I thought Mom was
lying when she said you probably had nowhere to go.”
“That would have made her feel better.” Chloe winced. I led her into
the kitchen.
She sat at the island while I made coffee. Neither of us knew how to
act around the other without an audience.
For most of our lives together, our relationship had been mediated
by Gwendolyn.
If Chloe wanted something, her mother translated it into an
entitlement. If I objected, Gwendolyn translated my objection into
cruelty.
We had never been allowed to disagree like sisters. We had been cast
as rival claimants in a competition neither of us had designed.
Chloe wrapped both hands around the mug I placed in front of her. “I
was awful at dinner.”
“Yes.” Her eyes lifted. I did not soften it. “You smiled when she
told me to leave.”
“I know.” “You laughed when you saw my suitcases.” “I know.” “You
started moving into the room before the lawyer notice even arrived.”
Her face flushed. “I know.” I sat across from her. “I’m not going to
pretend those things didn’t happen because you brought me a
recording.”
“I’m not asking you to.” That answer surprised me. Chloe stared into
her coffee.
“I thought you always won.” I almost laughed. “Won what?”
“Everything.” She gestured vaguely around the house.
“You had Mom’s old things. Dad listened differently when you talked.
You had a real job before I finished high school. You could buy this
place and not even tell anyone.”
“That isn’t winning.” “It felt like it from where I was sitting.” I
leaned back.
“From where I was sitting, you had a mother who was alive.” The
words landed between us.
Chloe’s face changed. For the first time, neither of us had a
comeback. She looked toward the window.
“I never thought of it like that.” “I know.” We sat in silence for a
while.
Then she unlocked her phone. “I need to explain the Manhattan
thing.” I nodded.
“Mom has been talking about New York for almost a year. She said if
my content career took off, we could get a place there for part of
the year.”
“Did Dad know?” “I thought he did.” “But?” “Two weeks ago, I heard
them arguing. Dad said there was no money. Mom said the house was
the money.”
I felt my jaw tighten. Chloe continued. “She said he was sitting on
a three-million-dollar asset while drowning in debt. Dad said it
wasn’t that simple. She told him he always makes everything
complicated because he’s afraid of Paige.”
I almost smiled at the absurdity. “He isn’t afraid of me.” “He is
now.” That was not funny.
Chloe slid her phone across the island. There were more screenshots.
Email threads with the broker.
Apartment inquiries. Messages between Gwendolyn and a boutique
consultant. One message read:
If the sale closes anywhere near three, I can clear Samuel’s mess,
fund the label, and still have enough to get Chloe established in
New York.
Another: Paige will complain, but once she’s out of the house, she
has no leverage.
I read that one twice. No leverage. Gwendolyn had assumed occupancy
meant power.
She had not known the trust turned that assumption upside down. “Why
are you giving me these?” I asked.
Chloe’s mouth trembled. “Because Dad is going to find out anyway.”
“That’s not a reason.”
She looked at me. “Because she used me.” There it was. The injury
beneath the attitude.
Chloe had wanted my bedroom. But she had not understood that her
mother was using the request as a pressure point against my father
and me.
“She told me the room would make my channel look more professional,”
Chloe said. “She kept saying I deserved a chance to build my own
future.”
“And now?” “Now I think she wanted me excited enough to help push
you out.”
I watched her carefully. “Do you still want the room?” Chloe gave a
weak laugh.
“I don’t even want to go back in there.” I believed her. At noon,
Dad called.
His voice sounded brittle. “Can I come over?” “Chloe is here.” A
pause. “With you?”
“Yes.” Another pause. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” When he
arrived, Chloe began crying before he even sat down.
It was not dramatic crying. There was no screaming. She simply
handed him the phone and watched his face change as he read.
Dad read everything. The broker messages. The apartment application.
The boutique plan.
The audio transcript. When he finished, he placed the phone on the
table with both hands.
“I knew she wanted to sell,” he said. Chloe wiped her cheeks. “You
didn’t know she had a New York lease application.”
“No.” “She said we would all move eventually.” Dad looked at me. “I
never agreed to New York.”
The room became still. He read the apartment application again. Then
he whispered, “She was planning to leave.”
I did not answer. This was not a moment for me to win. That
mattered. For years, Gwendolyn had taught us to treat every family
conflict as a contest.
If she lost, I won. If Chloe gained something, I had to lose it. If
Dad defended one person, he betrayed another.
I suddenly saw how poisonous that structure was. Dad leaned back in
the chair.
“I deserved honesty from her.” The sentence came out broken. “Yes,”
I said.
He looked at me. The realization reached him instantly. “So did
you.” My throat tightened.
“Yes.” He nodded once. For several minutes, nobody spoke. Finally,
Dad said, “I’m going home.”
Chloe looked alarmed. “What are you going to do?” “Talk to my wife.”
“Dad—”
“I’m not going to scream.” He looked at both of us. “I have screamed
less in ten years than I should have.”
Despite everything, I smiled. It was a strange thing to hear from
him. Before leaving, he stopped beside the front door.
“Paige.” “Yes?” “Your mother told me something the week before she
died.” I waited.
“She said the house would reveal the truth about anyone who loved it
more than they loved the people inside it.”
My skin prickled. “I don’t remember that.” “She said it to me.” His
eyes dropped.
“I thought she was being poetic.” “And now?” He looked back toward
the valley.
“Now I think she knew me better than I knew myself.” After Dad left,
Chloe stayed.
We ordered sandwiches and sat outside beneath the long shaded porch.
The desert stretched below us in layers of stone, brush, and distant
rooftops.
For the first time in years, we talked without Gwendolyn translating
either of us.
Chloe told me she did not actually want to attend the private
university her mother had chosen. She wanted to study documentary
filmmaking at Arizona State and keep creating videos without turning
her entire life into a brand.
I told her I had almost bought a smaller townhouse because I was
afraid the hillside house was too ambitious.
She stared at me. “You get scared?” “All the time.” “You never look
scared.”
“That is because I learned young that people use visible fear as
proof you are weak.”
She absorbed that quietly. At four, her phone buzzed. A message from
Gwendolyn.
WHERE ARE YOU? Chloe typed: With Paige. Three dots appeared
instantly. Then vanished.
Then appeared again. Finally, the response came. COME HOME NOW.
Chloe turned the phone over.
“I’m not ready.” “You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to.”
She looked at me carefully.
“Can I?” The question reached somewhere tender. “You can use the
guest room.”
Her face crumpled again. This time, I hugged her. It felt awkward.
Then less awkward.
That evening, just after sunset, Dad called. He did not say hello.
“She admitted it.”
I stood near the window. “Everything?” “The apartment. The broker.
The loan application.”
“And?” “She says she was trying to save the family.” I closed my
eyes. Of course she did.
Dad continued. “I asked her to stay at a hotel tonight.” I said
nothing. “She told me I was choosing you over her.”
“What did you say?” His voice shook. “I told her I was choosing the
truth over silence.”
For the first time, I had no criticism ready. Then he added, “Paige,
there’s something else.”
My stomach tightened. “What?” “When I went through the office files
looking for the loan paperwork, I found another envelope from your
mother’s estate.”
I went completely still. “What envelope?” “Sealed. Your name is on
it.” I gripped the phone.
“Why do you have it?” “I don’t know.” “Dad.” “I swear to you, I
don’t remember seeing it before.”
“Read the front.” Paper rustled. Then he spoke slowly. “To Paige.
Deliver only when she has established a home of her own.”
I looked around the house on the hill. The lights of Phoenix were
beginning to appear below.
My mother had been dead for twelve years. And somehow, she had still
May you like
managed to leave one final message timed for the exact moment I
stopped begging for a place in someone else’s home.
