Chapter 3: The Return and the Empty Chairs
I didn’t park on the street this time. I didn’t politely use the guest parking area near the side garden.
I pulled the heavy SUV aggressively up the long, sweeping, circular driveway, parking haphazardly directly in front of the grand stone steps. The high-beam headlights illuminated the heavy oak double doors like a spotlight on a stage.
Before I could even put the car in park, turn off the ignition, and unbuckle my seatbelt, the front doors of the estate swung violently open.
Frank stood on the porch.
His massive, broad-shouldered frame was silhouetted against the warm, golden light spilling from the crystal chandelier in the foyer. He wasn’t wearing his usual, festive, hand-knit holiday sweater. He had completely stripped off his suit jacket, his silk tie was loosened and hanging askew, and his dress shirt sleeves were rolled up past his forearms, revealing thick, corded muscle.
He looked less like a genial, wealthy grandfather hosting a holiday dinner, and more like a furious, battle-hardened general preparing to lead a siege against a hostile stronghold.
He rushed down the frost-covered stone steps, ignoring the snow, his heavy boots crunching loudly. He pulled the back door of the SUV open before I could even get out of the driver’s seat.
He leaned deep into the backseat and scooped a startled, wide-eyed Mia out of her car seat, unbuckling her with surprising gentleness, and enveloping her small, fragile frame in his massive, warm arms.
“There’s my girl,” Frank whispered fiercely. His voice cracked with heavy, unrestrained emotion. He buried his face in her hair, holding her so tightly I thought she might squeak. “Grandpa’s got you. You are safe. Nobody is ever going to turn you away from my door again.”
Mia, confused by the sudden return but instantly comforted by his overwhelming, familiar warmth, hugged his thick neck tightly. She reached down into the seat and grabbed the crumpled, glittery paper turkey.
“Grandpa…” Mia said softly, holding it out to him. “I made this for you. But Grandma said there was no room for it.”
Frank looked at the battered, glitter-covered piece of construction paper. His jaw tightened so hard I could see the muscles jumping in his cheek. He took the paper turkey from her small hand with the absolute, trembling reverence of a man receiving a priceless crown jewel.
“It’s the most beautiful turkey I’ve ever seen in my entire life, my little sunflower,” Frank said softly. His eyes blazed with a dark, terrifying, unholy fire as he looked over her head directly at me. “Let’s go put it right in the absolute center of the table.”
He turned and carried her inside, his strides long and purposeful.
I followed close behind him, my spine stiff with pure adrenaline, my heart pounding a relentless war drum against my ribs. I walked up the steps and crossed the threshold into the warmth of the foyer.
We walked past the entryway and stepped fully into the grand dining room.
The scene before us was a tableau of frozen, awkward, breathtaking horror.
The joyful, chaotic clinking of expensive silverware against fine china, the pop of wine corks, and the hum of polite, high-society conversation had ground to a dead, instantaneous halt.
Twelve faces—aunts, uncles, older cousins, and family friends—turned toward the archway in unison, staring at us in stunned, profoundly uncomfortable silence. They sensed the sudden, violent drop in atmospheric pressure.
Daniel, sitting near the middle of the long, lavishly decorated table, dropped his heavy silver carving fork onto his china plate with a loud, ringing clatter.
The color rapidly drained from his face, leaving him a sickly, pale gray as he realized that his wife and daughter had been missing, had apparently left, and were now returning escorted by his visibly enraged father.
“Claire? What’s going on?” Daniel stammered, pushing his heavy wooden chair back and standing up abruptly, deep confusion written across his features. “Where were you guys? I thought you were stuck in traffic on the interstate.”
Eleanor leaped up from her chair at the head of the table.
Her perfectly powdered, meticulously contoured face flushed a violent, mottled, panicked crimson. The mask of the gracious, benevolent hostess was slipping rapidly, revealing the terrified, calculating woman beneath.
“Oh, there you are!” Eleanor exclaimed. Her voice was shrill, breathless, and dripping with fake, desperate, theatrical enthusiasm. She clapped her hands together. “We thought you got lost in traffic, dear! Come sit, come sit, the turkey is getting cold. Let me take your coats. The weather out there is just dreadful!”
“Sit down, Eleanor,” Frank commanded.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t raise his voice to a scream. He didn’t need to. It was a low, seismic, guttural rumble that seemed to physically vibrate the floorboards and shake the crystal wine glasses resting on the table. It was the absolute, undeniable, terrifying authority of a man who owned the very ground they stood upon.
Eleanor froze midway between her head chair and the archway, her fake smile faltering, her manicured hands trembling slightly at her sides.
“Frank, please,” Eleanor hissed through gritted teeth, maintaining a forced, wide smile, desperately attempting to preserve the illusion in front of her high-society sister sitting to her left. “The guests are eating. Don’t make a scene. Let’s discuss whatever this is in the kitchen.”
“I said sit down,” Frank repeated, pointing a thick, unwavering, aggressive finger directly at her empty chair.
Eleanor, realizing with dawning horror that she had completely, unequivocally lost control of the room, slowly sank back into her seat. Her eyes darted nervously around the table, looking for an ally and finding none.
Frank turned to face the room, still holding Mia safely and securely in his left arm, resting her on his hip. His eyes swept over the extended family, burning with absolute, righteous fury.
“Thirty minutes ago,” Frank announced, his voice echoing off the high, vaulted ceiling, “my phone buzzed with a motion alert from the front porch security camera. The brand-new, high-definition camera that Eleanor explicitly insisted we install last month because she was worried about package thieves.”
Eleanor gasped, a sharp, involuntary intake of air. Her hand flew to her mouth in sheer horror. She had completely, fatally forgotten about the technology she had demanded for her own safety.
“I was in my study, pouring a drink,” Frank continued relentlessly, his gaze locking onto his wife like a laser targeting system. “I stepped to my desk to check the live feed. And I watched, in 4K resolution, with crystal clear audio, as the woman I have been married to for thirty-five years looked my innocent, five-year-old granddaughter dead in the eye, told her she was an ‘extra’, and slammed the door in her face on Thanksgiving.”
A collective, horrifying gasp rippled through the dining room. An aunt sitting near the window covered her mouth with her napkin. An uncle set his wine glass down, looking sick.
Daniel stumbled backward, his hip hitting the edge of the table, rattling the plates. His eyes were wide, horrified, as he looked at his mother. The blinders had been violently ripped off.
“Mom…” Daniel whispered, his voice cracking. “Tell me you didn’t do that. Tell me he’s lying.”
“She didn’t just tell her there was no room,” Frank said, taking a step fully into the dining room, walking purposefully toward the two empty chairs situated by the large bay window. “She told Claire that these two chairs were reserved for ‘people who actually matter’.”
Frank gently, carefully set Mia down into one of the empty chairs. He smoothed her hair, kissed her forehead, and didn’t look at his wife. He looked at Daniel.
“Now,” Frank said, the storm clouds finally breaking open. “We are going to find out exactly who matters in this family.”
