Chapter 2 - The Crestview Tudor
The drive to Crestview Drive took exactly twenty minutes, but it felt like a journey between two entirely different planets.
While the downtown sector of Riverside was still blocked by orange construction cones, police barricades, and the dust of collapsed brick facades, the gated community of Oakridge Estates was pristine. The tall, white stucco walls were unscratched; the old, weeping willows hung gracefully over manicured lawns that had been watered that very morning.
I parked my Honda Civic directly in front of my parents' driveway. It looked absurd—a dented, dusty hatchback sitting behind my sister’s gleaming white Range Rover and my father’s black Mercedes S-Class.
Lily sat up, her eyes wide as she looked at the massive, two-story brick-and-timber house. "Mommy, is this where the game room is?"
"Yes, baby," I said, getting out of the car and opening her door. I lifted her out, holding her hand tightly as we walked up the brick pathway. "But we’re only here for a business meeting. Remember what we talked about? We stay together, and we don't touch anything unless Mommy says it's okay."
"Okay," she whispered, her small fingers squeezing mine.
I didn't knock.
I had the master key to every trust-owned property in my purse—a key my grandfather had given me in a velvet-lined box when I graduated from college, telling me, "Never let them make you feel like a guest in your own house, Clara."
I inserted the key into the heavy, brass-studded oak door. It turned with a smooth, expensive click.
The interior of the house was warm, smelling of cinnamon, fresh espresso, and the buttery scent of pastries. From the kitchen, I could hear the loud, high-pitched laughter of my sister Vanessa, followed by the deep, booming chuckle of my father.
"Oh, tell him he has to use the north gate, Vanessa!" my mother's voice carried down the hallway. "The south gate is closed for the utility trucks. We don't want those dirty workers parking their rigs where the neighbors can see them."
I stepped into the grand foyer. The polished limestone floor was spotless. Above us, the crystal chandelier didn't have a single loose prism from the earthquake.
"Hello, Mother. Father," I called out.
The laughter in the kitchen stopped instantly.
A second later, my mother, Carol, emerged from the arched doorway, holding a porcelain teacup. She was wearing a cream-colored cashmere sweater, her silver-blonde hair perfectly styled. When she saw me—and more importantly, when she saw Lily standing beside me in her wrinkled unicorn pajamas—her face went completely rigid.
"Clara," she said, her voice dropping into a strained, hushed whisper. She didn't look at Lily; she looked at my muddy tennis shoes. "What are you doing here? I told you on the phone, we are in the middle of a major transition. The house is in complete disarray after the tremor."
"It looks very clean to me, Carol," I said, using her first name for the first time in my life.
My father, Richard, stepped out behind her, a copy of the Wall Street Journal in his hand. He was wearing his golf shirt, his face flushed red. "Clara, you can't just barge in here without calling. This is highly inappropriate. And why is the child here? We told you—"
"I heard what you told me, Richard," I cut him off. "You said there was no room. You said the house was at maximum capacity."
"It is!" Vanessa chimed in, stepping into the foyer with her six-year-old son, Mason, who was holding a brand-new iPad. "Mason and Chloe had to move their entire play set into the guest wing because of the plaster dust in the upstairs hallway. We’re practically living on top of each other!"
"Is that so?" I asked.
I didn't wait for their permission. I walked past my mother, dragging Lily gently behind me, and headed straight for the grand curved staircase that led to the second floor.
"Clara! Stop this instant!" my father roared, his heavy boots pounding on the limestone behind us. "You do not have the right to inspect this house! You are acting like a lunatic!"
I didn't stop. I reached the landing of the second floor and threw open the double doors of the "game room."
The room was vast, easily sixty feet long, with vaulted cedar ceilings. The giant leather sectional couch was empty, save for a few discarded silk pillows. The eighty-inch television was playing a silent nature documentary. On the far side of the room, two separate, massive guest suites stood open, their king-sized beds made with crisp, white linens, untouched by a single human hand.
There was enough space in this wing alone to house three families.
I turned around to face my parents and my sister, who had bunched together at the top of the stairs, their faces a mixture of fury, embarrassment, and a sudden, creeping terror.
"No space," I said, my voice echoing off the cedar rafters. "That’s what you told me while my daughter was shivering in the back of a hatchback in a church parking lot."
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"Clara, you don't understand the logistics—" Vanessa began, her voice high and defensive.
"I understand the logistics perfectly, Vanessa," I said. I pulled my phone from my pocket and unlocked the screen, revealing the email from the California Department of Housing. "And more importantly, I understand the finances."
