Chapter 2 - Lights in the Windows
The tires of my car hissed against the wet asphalt as I turned onto Maple Street, the upscale neighborhood where the manicured lawns and stately colonial homes usually radiated an aura of peaceful suburban security. But as my headlights swept across the property I had bought my parents, the sight that met my eyes made my foot instinctively slam on the brake.
The house blazed with light.
Every single window on the first and second floors illuminated the falling rain with a garish, golden glare. Heavy bass from an expensive sound system thudded through the wet night air—a remix of electronic music that rattled the very windowpanes of the adjacent houses. In the driveway, parked right where my father’s sensible sedan used to sit, was a brand-new, matte-black sports car with dealer plates still dangling from the rear bumper.
What is he doing? I muttered, my hands tightening on the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
Matt, please... don't make a scene, my mother pleaded from the back seat, leaning forward to grab the edge of my seatbelt. Trevor has... well, he’s got friends over. People from the city. They’re dangerous, Matthew. You don't know what he's like when he's drinking.
I don't care if he's hosting the United Nations, I snapped, the ice in my veins turning to liquid fire. That is your home. You spent forty years living in a cramped apartment so I could make something of myself, and the first thing I did with my money was give you a roof over your heads. I am going to get those keys back, and then I am going to dismantle Trevor's entire little fantasy world.
I killed the engine, cut the headlights, and stepped out into the rain before either of my parents could offer another word of protest.
Stay in the car, Dad. Lock the doors, I instructed, marching up the paved walkway toward the heavy mahogany front door I had personally chosen for them.
The sound of laughter and shouting spilled out from inside as I approached. Someone—a woman with a shrill, intoxicated laugh—was recounting a story about a high-stakes poker game. I didn't bother knocking. I raised my fist and hammered three heavy, deafening blows against the solid wood.
The music inside cut off instantly, replaced by a momentary, stunned silence.
A few seconds later, the lock clicked with a sharp mechanical snap, and the door swung wide open.
Standing in the entryway was Trevor. He was wearing an expensive silk bathrobe over a designer t-shirt, a gold chain gleaming around his neck, holding a highball glass filled with amber liquid and ice. His hair was slicked back, and his eyes had that glassy, unfocused look of a man who had spent the entire evening celebrating a victory he didn't earn.
He took one look at me—standing soaked to the skin, shivering in the freezing rain, glaring at him with pure murder in my eyes—and his arrogant smirk slowly dissolved.
May you like
Well, well, well, Trevor drawled, leaning his shoulder lazily against the doorframe. Look who decided to grace us with his corporate presence. Did your private jet get delayed by the weather, little brother?
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