PART 5: THE RETURN HOME
The drive back from the downtown Portland courthouse was entirely silent.
Not an uncomfortable silence.
A peaceful one.
Marianne kept both hands on the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on the wet highway.
I looked out the passenger window, watching the green Oregon pine trees blur past.
My hands were no longer shaking.
For months, my fingers had trembled every time I checked my bank account, every time the front door clicked, every time the babies cried in the middle of the night.
Now, my lap was still.
We pulled into the driveway of the modest craftsman house Marianne and I had rented after I fled Eleanor’s estate.
It wasn't a mansion in Lomas de Chapultepec.
It didn't have a grand marble foyer or a crystal chandelier.
But it had white roses by the porch, and it smelled like lavender and baby powder.
As soon as the engine cut out, I opened the door.
I didn't wait for Marianne.
I ran up the wooden steps, unlocked the front door, and walked straight into the nursery.
The babysitter, a kind college student named Sarah, stood up from the rocking chair with a warm smile.
"How did it go?" she whispered.
I didn't answer with words.
I walked over to the twin white cribs.
Lily was asleep, her tiny fist pressed against her cheek.
Noah was awake, kicking his little feet in his blue onesie, his bright hazel eyes tracking my movement.
Slowly, I reached down and lifted Noah into my arms.
He felt heavy. Healthy.
He smelled clean, completely free of the stale, expensive cigar smoke that used to drift into the nursery from Daniel’s study.
Marianne stepped into the room behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder.
"They are yours, Claire," she whispered. "Legally. Spiritually. Completely."
I pressed my face into Noah’s soft hair, a single tear escaping my eye.
But I didn't sob.
I smiled.
"We are safe," I whispered to my son.
Then, the landline phone in the kitchen began to ring.
The sound was loud. Sudden. Sharp.
Marianne and I exchanged a look.
No one had that number except our attorneys, the bank, and...
I handed Noah gently back to Marianne and walked into the kitchen.
I picked up the receiver.
May you like
"Claire," a cold, aristocratic voice spoke before I could even say hello.
It was Eleanor Whitmore.
