Chapter 4 - The House of Glass
Two days later, Lily was discharged from St. Agnes Children’s Hospital. Her lungs were clear, her color had returned, and her small hand felt strong and warm inside mine as we walked out the automatic sliding doors into the crisp Seattle air.
We didn't return to the grand, oppressive house on Queen Anne Hill where Patricia ruled her little kingdom.
Instead, my attorney had secured a quiet, sunlit apartment overlooking Elliott Bay—neutral territory, paid for by the emergency asset freeze on the Carter family accounts.
When we walked inside, the living room was filled with welcoming flowers, a basket of safe, allergy-free treats, and a brand-new art easel Lily had been eyeing for months.
Daniel was waiting in the lobby downstairs. He looked haggard, his suit wrinkled, his eyes hollowed out by sleepless nights and the sudden collapse of his social standing.
When I stepped out of the elevator to meet him, he looked like a ghost of the man who had ignored my calls at the lake.
“Nora,” he breathed, stepping forward. “Please. Can we talk? Mom has been arraigned. The bank froze our accounts. Claire’s husband is threatening divorce. Everything is falling apart.”
I looked at him—really looked at him—and wondered how I had ever mistaken his cowardice for stability.
“I know it is, Daniel,” I said evenly.
“You can stop this,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “You can tell the prosecutor it was a misunderstanding. We can go to counseling—”
“There is no misunderstanding,” I interrupted, my voice as cold as winter glass. “Your mother watched our daughter suffocate and chose a boat ride. You ignored my calls because your family told you I was being dramatic. You both made your choice.”
“She’s my mother—”
“And Lily is my daughter,” I fired back, stepping into his space with quiet, unyielding fury. “And unlike your mother, I will burn down every single bridge, every bank account, and every social circle you and your family built before I ever let someone put her life in danger again.”
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Daniel flinched as if I had struck him. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“The divorce papers will be served tomorrow morning,” I added softly. “Pack your things and get out of our lives.”
