Chapter 9 - The House of Cards
The look on their faces was worth every second of the pain. My father’s jaw went slack; my mother’s poise shattered, her face curdling into a mask of pure, reptilian hatred.
"You," my mother whispered, her voice a poisonous hiss. "You little parasite. You just won't stay buried, will you?"
"That's exactly what I'm not going to do," I said. I pulled out my phone and played the audio—not of the argument in the garage, but of their conversation from ten minutes ago, which we had captured on a hidden mic as they walked to the door. They were discussing how to dispose of the "Chloe problem" once the final payment was made.
"Did you hear that?" I yelled toward the doorway.
The police swarmed the room. Marcus, the journalist, stepped out from behind a pillar, his camera flashing. My father lunged, but he was tackled by officers before he could even take a step.
My mother didn't fight. She stood there, frozen, as the cuffs were slapped onto her wrists. She looked at me, not with remorse, but with a horrifying confusion, as if she couldn't comprehend how a "liar" had managed to orchestrate her downfall.
"You're a disgrace," she spat at me as she was dragged away.
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"No," I replied, standing tall. "I'm the truth."
The evidence was comprehensive. By morning, the story was on every news channel in the country. The embezzlement, the blackmail, the assault—it was all laid out in raw, brutal detail. The reputation they had spent decades building evaporated in a single news cycle.
