And then I bought the house.
It was a manor in Glenn Haven, a town that smelled of pine needles and old money that had long since stopped flaunting itself. The house was an architectural beast built in the 1920s, sitting on four acres of land bordered by a dense, uninviting forest.
It had stone walls that were two feet thick and iron gates that groaned like dying animals when you pushed them. It was not a cozy house. It was a fortress.
I bought it for $1.2 million. I did not use my name.
I formed a limited liability company called Nemesis Holdings, paying the filing fees in cash. I hired a lawyer who specialized in privacy trusts to handle the closing. On the deed, the owner was a faceless entity. On the tax records, it was a blind trust.
To the world, and specifically to Graham and Marilyn Caldwell, Clare Lopez was a ghost.
I told no one. Not my few friends, not my colleagues. The silence was the most expensive thing I had ever bought, and I savored it.
Now it is December 23rd.
The air in Glenn Haven is sharp enough to cut glass. I am standing at the end of the driveway looking up at the house. My house. It looms against the gray sky, a silhouette of sharp angles and dark slate. The windows are dark because I have not turned the lights on yet.
I like the darkness. It feels honest.
I am wearing a heavy wool coat and leather gloves, my breath pluming in front of me. I have spent the last three days here alone. I have spent thousands of dollars on supplies.
I have a freezer full of steaks and good wine. I have a library full of books I have been meaning to read for five years. I have a fireplace in the main hall that is large enough to roast a whole hog, though I plan to use it only to burn the few remaining photographs I have of my childhood.
For the first time in my life, the silence around me is not a result of exclusion. It is a result of selection.
I chose this. I built this wall.
I walk up the stone steps to the front door. The key is heavy brass, cold in my hand.
When I unlock the door and step inside, the air is still and smells faintly of cedar and dust. I do not feel lonely. I feel fortified.
I walk through the grand foyer, my boots clicking on the marble floor. I pass the dining room where a long mahogany table sits empty. I run my hand along the back of a chair. There will be no turkey here. There will be no forced laughter. There will be no parents looking through me as if I am made of glass.
I move to the kitchen, a cavernous space with industrial appliances that I barely know how to use. I pour myself a glass of water from the tap and lean against the granite island. It is quiet, so incredibly quiet.
I think about what they are doing right now.
It is the 23rd, which means Marilyn is currently micromanaging the placement of ornaments on their twelve-foot tree. Graham is likely in his study, hiding from the holiday chaos and checking his bank accounts, worrying about the debt he tries so hard to hide. Derek is probably already drunk or high or both, breaking something valuable that he will blame on the maid.
They are likely wondering why I haven’t called.
Or maybe they aren’t. Maybe they are relieved. Maybe they are telling their friends, with a sigh of long-suffering martyrdom, that Clare has gone off the rails again. That Clare is having one of her episodes. That Clare is just so difficult to love.
Let them talk. Their words cannot reach me here.
I am behind stone walls. I am behind a trust fund shield. I am invisible.
I finish my water and decide to inspect the perimeter. It is a habit from work. Assess the vulnerabilities. Check the exits.
I walk out the back door onto the terrace that overlooks the overgrown garden. The snow is falling softly now, large flakes that stick to the stone balustrade. The woods beyond are a wall of black and white. It is beautiful in a stark, brutal way.
This is what I wanted. A Christmas that belongs to me. A holiday that is not an obligation or a performance.
I have spent thirty-five years waiting for someone to give me permission to be happy, to give me permission to take up space. Standing here in the shadow of this massive house that I bought with my own money, earned from cleaning up other people’s disasters, I realize the truth.
You do not ask for permission. You take it.
You sign the deed. You wire the funds. And you lock the gate behind you.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the icy air. I feel a strange sensation in my chest. It takes me a moment to identify it.
It is pride. Cold, hard, solitary pride.
I turn back to go inside, planning to light the fire in the library and open a bottle of Cabernet that costs three hundred dollars. I am going to sit in a leather chair and read until my eyes burn. I am going to sleep until noon. I am going to exist loudly and unapologetically in this empty house.
And then I hear it.
It is faint at first, carried on the wind that whips down the valley, the low, steady hum of an engine.
I freeze, my hand on the doorknob. This road is a dead end. There are no neighbors for two miles. The only reason to be on this road is if you are coming here.
I wait.
The sound grows louder. It is not the rattle of a delivery truck or the high whine of a sedan. It is the heavy, throaty rumble of large vehicles. SUVs. Expensive ones.
I step back into the shadow of the doorway, my heart kicking a sudden violent rhythm against my ribs.
I check my watch. It is four in the afternoon. The light is failing fast. The sound gets closer, crunching over the packed snow of the private drive.
I move through the house, keeping the lights off, and go to the front window in the foyer. The heavy velvet drapes are drawn, but I pull back the edge just an inch.
Through the iron bars of the main gate, I see headlights cutting through the gloom. Not one pair. Two.
Two black SUVs slow down and come to a halt right in front of my gate. They sit there for a moment, engines idling, exhaust pumping gray clouds into the winter air.
Then the doors open.
I watch as a man steps out of the first car. Even from this distance, even through the falling snow, I know the shape of that coat. I know the arrogant tilt of that head.
It is Graham.
My stomach drops. Not with fear, but with a sudden hot rage.
How. How did they find me? I covered every track. I sealed every leak.
Then a second figure emerges from the passenger side. Marilyn. She is wrapped in fur, looking up at the house not with awe, but with a critical, possessive squint.
And from the back seat of the second car, Derek stumbles out, looking at his phone.
But it is the fourth person who makes my blood run cold.
A man in a blue coverall gets out of a white van that has pulled up behind the SUVs. He walks around to the back of his van and pulls out a heavy red toolbox. He walks toward the gate, not tentatively, but with purpose. He approaches the electronic keypad of my gate, the one I coded myself just yesterday.
Graham points at the gate. The man in the coveralls nods and pulls out a drill.
They did not come to knock. They did not come to ring the bell.
They brought a locksmith.
