Part 3He Tiptoes In An Empty House

I didn't go back to the house for two days. Gary didn't call. He only sent a single text: "When you’re done throwing your tantrum, come home and get Lindsay's onboarding paperwork ready."

I stared at the screen for a long time before letting out a soft, hollow laugh. To him, my packing up, my injury, and the agonizing nights I spent staring at the ceiling were completely insignificant compared to Lindsay's onboarding file.

At our next quarterly project meeting, Lindsay showed up unannounced. She slid into the seat directly opposite me, offering a sweet, eager smile. "Gary suggested I shadow you today to learn the ropes. You don't mind, do you, Faith?"

I kept my eyes on my laptop screen, ignoring her.

The presentation started smoothly enough. But as I flipped to the key financial projection slide to explain our risk model, Lindsay spoke up, cutting me off.

"Faith," she said, her voice dripping with mock innocence, "isn't that model incredibly risky? Gary mentioned last night that your mental state hasn't been stable lately. Are you sure these numbers are safe?"

The entire conference room fell into a dead silence. Every eye pivoted to me.

She wasn't just being naive. She was deliberately linking my professional competence to my personal struggles, attempting to tear down my credibility in front of my peers.

I took a slow, deep breath, forcing myself to finish the pitch. The project had been on the verge of approval, but by that afternoon, the board sent it back for "re-evaluation."

My assistant, Becca, closed my office door and lowered her voice. "Someone leaked anonymous files to the board. They claim your heavy medication makes you mentally unstable."

My fingers froze over my keyboard.

"There's also this," she added, placing a manila folder on my desk. I opened it. Inside were clear, high-resolution photographs of my medical records.

The prescriptions for my sleeping pills and the doctor’s recommendation to "reduce high-stress activities" stood out in sharp focus. The angle of the photos was unmistakable. They had been taken from directly above the drawer in our home study.

Staring at those pages, a cold shiver ran down my spine.

I packed my things and took an Uber back to the house.

The lock on the study door showed clear signs of tampering—two fresh, jagged gouges in the wood from a screwdriver. I pushed the door open to find my desk drawers completely disarrayed. The velvet box holding my mother’s pocket watch was missing.

Laughter drifted up from the living room.

Downstairs, Lindsay was curled on the velvet sofa, looping the gold chain of my mother's pocket watch around her neck. The watch face caught the light, clicking open and shut between her manicured fingers.

"Faith! Look at this, it's so vintage," she smiled, looking up at me. "Gary said you never wear it anyway, so I thought I'd borrow it. You don't mind, right?"

I walked toward her, my pace quickening.

She gasped and suddenly let go. The heavy gold watch slammed onto the marble floor. The casing popped open, the glass face shattering into a web of fine cracks. Underneath, the black-and-white portrait of my mother as a young woman fractured into pieces.

Gary rushed down the stairs. His eyes went straight to Lindsay first. Seeing her welling eyes, his tone dropped into immediate accusation. "Faith, what the hell are you doing now?"

I knelt down, trying to pick up the broken pieces. A shard of glass sliced into my index finger, and a drop of dark blood fell onto my mother's picture, seeping into the cracks.

Gary frowned. It wasn't out of concern for me. "You’re getting blood on the rug," he said.

He reached down, grabbing my arm to pull me up. "It’s just an old watch. I'll buy you a new one."

I looked up at him. "Gary," I said, my voice barely a whisper, yet holding every ounce of weight I had left, "there are some things you can never afford to replace."

Something in my eyes seemed to pierce through him, but only for a second. He looked away, guiding Lindsay toward the kitchen to find an ice pack for her wrist. He left me kneeling on the floor alone.

The blood dripped steadily from my finger, staining the dusty-blue cashmere scarf that still lay discarded on the floor. I pulled out my phone, desperately wanting to talk to someone. I scrolled through my contacts twice, found no one, and locked the screen again.

Later that night, Gary’s name flashed on my screen. I picked up, only to hear his exhausted voice. "Lindsay is hysterical because of what happened. You need to come home and apologize to her."

There was a brief pause on his end. Then, I heard Lindsay’s soft, fragile voice in the background: "Gary... do you think Faith is never coming back because of me?"