Walter wasn’t a pillar of the community; he was a desperate criminal willing to drug his own daughter-in-law to maintain his pathetic country club image. “And Nathan?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Does he know?” “No,” Kimberly cried. “Nathan thinks everything is fine.

Dad was terrified of Nathan finding out the truth. Please, Hannah, don’t call the police.

It’ll kill Mom.” I looked at the scattered money, my grandmother’s necklace, and the unconscious man on the floor who had tried to drug me over pure greed. I didn’t feel pity.

I felt profound disgust. “Pick up my jewelry, Kimberly,” I said, my voice shockingly cold and authoritative. She scrambled to the floor, hastily gathering the pieces and handing them back to me. I clutched them in my hand, stepped right over Walter’s snoring body, and walked into the study.

I picked up the landline on his desk. “Hannah, what are you doing?” she pleaded. “I’m calling the police,” I replied, dialing the numbers without hesitation. “And then I’m calling Nathan. Your father’s consequences have finally arrived.” By the time the sun came up, the storm had passed.

Walter was taken out of the house in handcuffs, still groggy and completely disoriented, screaming that it was all a misunderstanding. Kimberly was being questioned by detectives in the living room. I packed my bags, walked out the front door of the pristine, rotten Anderson house, and never looked back.