Chapter 3

When I pushed open the villa's front door, the floor was littered with shredded children's drawings.

There were Victoria's suns, her little flowers, and her sketches of our family.

On the family portrait, she'd drawn a tall dad, a beautiful mom, and herself right in the middle.

The three of us were holding hands, grinning with lopsided, crooked smiles.

And smack in the center of that drawing, someone had stomped a shoe print.

Following the noise, I walked further inside.

The door to Victoria's room stood wide open.

Charles lounged in the doorway, silk robe hanging loose, barking orders at two workers as they dismantled Victoria's little bed.

The pink curtains had been torn down and dumped on the floor.

The cartoon stickers on the wall were being scraped off one by one with a scraper.

Victoria's favorite doll was shoved into a black trash bag by one of the workers.

Charles turned and saw me, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Michael, you're back? Perfect timing. I'm turning Victoria's old room into Duke's personal playroom."

He grabbed the doll by its hair and waved it in front of me.

"Why bother keeping this flea market crap? Just takes up space."

He let go, and the doll dropped into the trash bag.

I watched as the doll's face disappeared into the trash bag.

Victoria had named her "Little Star."

Every night, she had to hold Little Star to fall asleep.

I didn't yell, and I didn't rush over to snatch it back.

I walked over, crouched down, and pulled the trampled family portrait out from under Charles's foot.

The paper was crumpled, and a shoe print was stamped right across Victoria's smiling face.

I brushed the dust off with my hand.

I folded it up and slipped it into my pocket.

Charles cocked his head at me, that smug grin in his eyes practically screaming, "I won."

The door lock clicked.

Sophia's heels echoed on the marble floor, getting closer with every step.

Charles's expression changed in a split second.

He yelped, stumbling backward and slamming his back into the corner of the cabinet. His hand scraped against the edge, leaving a bright red mark.

He stayed on the floor, holding his wrist, breathing in soft shaky breaths.

"Ah… it hurts…"

His eyes were red-rimmed, just the right touch to make him look pitiful.

Sophia strode in, her eyes first landing on Charles sprawled on the floor, then locking onto me, still standing there.

Without warning, she slapped me hard across the face.

A crisp slap echoed, making my ears ring.

"Have you lost your mind? You know he can't handle stress." Sophia snapped.

I ran my tongue over the corner of my mouth.

I tasted blood.

"I didn't touch him," I said.

"You still won't admit it?" Sophia snapped.

She knelt down and pulled Charles into her arms.

Charles leaned into her arms, sounding extra pitiful.

"Sophia, please don't blame Michael. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have messed with Victoria's things, even though it was just a bunch of junk"

"It's not junk," I said.

Charles looked up at me, a sly little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The smile disappeared before anyone else could notice.

Sophia helped Charles up, checking the faint red mark on his hand like he'd been seriously hurt.

Then she turned to me.

"Charles is scared of the dark, so he'll be sleeping in the master bedroom from now on. You can stay in the basement and think about what you've done!"

I didn't say a word.

"Did you hear me?" Sophia snapped.

"Yes, I heard you," I replied.

I turned and went to the bedroom to grab my suitcase.

The suitcase was small, holding just a couple of changes of clothes, a ceramic urn, and a few of Victoria's drawings.

I wheeled my suitcase through the living room.

The wheels clattered across the marble floor, each tile making a sharp click.

Sophia lounged on the couch, her arm around Charles, watching me as I walked away.

"Still trying to get my attention? Let's see how long this act lasts," she said.

I didn't look back.

I dragged my suitcase down the stairs and into the basement.

The maid's room was tiny. Just a metal bed frame, a faucet, and a dim bulb hanging from the ceiling.

I set the ceramic urn down next to my pillow.

I ran my fingers over the lid.

"Victoria, give Daddy a few more days,' I whispered.

"Daddy's taking you somewhere no one can hurt you anymore."

Upstairs, I could hear Charles laughing, and Duke barking.

I turned off the light and lay down on the metal bed.

The springs dug into my back.

I stared at a crack in the ceiling, counting down the days.

Twelve days left.

I held the ceramic urn gently, making sure not to drop it, and got ready to leave for the cemetery.

As soon as I stepped into the living room, Duke darted out from behind the couch and clamped his jaws onto my pant leg.

I took a step back, clutching the urn to my chest.

Duke wouldn't let go, growling low in his throat, his drool soaking my pant leg.

"Duke, Come here!" Charles shouted.

Charles strolled down the stairs, lounging in his pajamas and letting out a lazy yawn.

His gaze dropped to the urn in my arms and lingered.

He tilted his head.

"Michael, what's that?"

"None of your business," I said.

He walked over, gave me a once-over, circling halfway around, then tapped the urn with his finger.

"Pretty plain, huh? This crappy urn is just the right size. Might as well use it as Duke's food bowl."

I took a step back.

"Get lost," I snapped.

Charles raised an eyebrow.

"Michael, the way you're clutching that thing, you'd think it was worth a million bucks."

He reached out to snatch the jar.

I turned sideways and locked the urn against my chest.

"Don't touch it!"

My voice was so raspy, it sounded like gravel grinding against steel.

Charles took a half-step back, his smirk vanishing for a split second.

Then suddenly, his knees buckled and he hit the floor.