Chapter 9
It happened eight months after the incident at my office.
It was a Tuesday evening.
Vivien and I were in the kitchen making homemade pasta, laughing as flour dusted her nose.
The doorbell rang.
I wiped my hands on a towel and went to the front door, checking the security camera feed on my phone.
My stomach dropped.
It was Logan.
He looked terrible.
He had lost weight, his clothes were wrinkled, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.
Next to him was Mom, sitting in a cheap manual wheelchair.
She looked ten years older.
Her face was gaunt, her hair unwashed.
I opened the front door, leaving the heavy security screen locked between us.
“What do you want?” I asked, my voice devoid of warmth.
“Cashin,” Logan said, his voice cracking. “Thank God you’re home. Open the door, man.”
“You’re violating the restraining order, Logan. I could have you arrested right now.”
“Cashin, please,” Mom croaked from the wheelchair. Her voice was weak and raspy. “I’m so sick. Please let me in.”
I stared at her.
Part of me—that deeply ingrained, traumatized eight-year-old boy—wanted to unlatch the door.
It was my mother.
But then I remembered the slap.
I remembered the two coins clinking on the floor.
I remembered her sitting on that stretcher while Sienna lied about Vivien pushing her down the stairs, and saying absolutely nothing to stop it.
“You don’t live here anymore,” I said. “You made your choice.”
“Cashin, I’m broke,” Logan blurted out, slamming his hands against the mesh screen. “The money is gone. All of it. The crypto tanked. The IRS audited me because Mom didn’t pay the gift tax on the winnings, and I can’t afford rent. We’re getting evicted on Friday.”
A dark, cold sense of satisfaction settled in my chest.
“Sounds like a problem for the golden child to solve. Where’s Sienna?”
“Sienna won’t answer our calls,” Mom sobbed, burying her face in her hands. “Mark took the kids. She’s living in a studio. She says she has no room for me. Cashin, Logan leaves me alone all day. He forgets to feed me. My stomach hurts so much. Please. I’m your mother.”
Vivien walked up behind me, wiping flour from her hands.
She looked through the screen, her expression unreadable.
“Mom,” she said quietly, “where is the million dollars?”
“It’s gone,” Mom wailed. “They spent it. I didn’t know they would spend it so fast. I thought they would take care of me.”
“You thought wrong,” I said. “You invested in the wrong children, and now you’re bankrupt.”