I was the safety net.

I was the one they called when Derek crashed his car and needed bail money, or when Graham needed a signature on a loan document because his credit was leveraged to the hilt.

They remembered me perfectly when they needed something.

It was only when it came time to give love or space or even a simple meal that my existence became hazy to them. Last year was the breaking point.

It was the night the numbness finally hardened into something used.
I had driven four hours through a blinding sleet storm to get to their house in Connecticut. It was December 24th.

I had not been invited, but I had not been uninvited either.

That was the gray area where we lived.

I assumed, like a fool, that family was the default setting. I pulled my sedan into the driveway, my trunk filled with gifts I had spent two months’ salary on.

The windows of the house were glowing with that warm amber light that looks so inviting in greeting cards. I could see silhouettes moving inside.

I could hear music.

I walked to the front door, my coat heavy with freezing rain, and I looked through the side pane.

They were all there. Graham was holding court by the fireplace with a scotch in his hand.

Marilyn was laughing, her head thrown back, wearing the diamond earrings I had bought her the year before.

Derek was there along with his newest girlfriend and a dozen other relatives and friends. The table was set.

The candles were lit.

There was no empty chair.

I knocked.

The sound seemed to kill the music instantly. When Marilyn opened the door, she did not look happy to see me. She looked inconvenienced.

She held a glass of wine against her chest as if to shield herself from my intrusion.

She said, “Oh, Clare, we thought you were working.

You’re always working.”

She did not step aside to let me in.

She stood in the doorway, blocking the warmth. Behind her, while the sleet hit my face, I saw Graham glance over, see me, and immediately turn his back to refill his drink.

They had not forgotten I existed.

They had simply decided that the picture of their perfect family looked better without me in the frame. I did not yell.

I did not cry.

I handed her the bag of gifts, turned around, walked back to my car, and drove four hours back to my empty apartment in the city.

That was the night I realized that hoping for them to change was a liability I could no longer afford. In my line of work, when a client refuses to mitigate a risk, you drop the client.

So, this year, I dropped them. The preparation took eleven months.

It was a forensic dismantling of my previous life.

I changed my phone number and registered the new one under a burner app that routed through three different servers.

I set up a post office box in a town forty miles away from where I actually lived. I scrubbed my social media presence, locking down every account, removing every tag, vanishing from the digital world as thoroughly as I had vanished from their dinner table.

I instructed the HR department at Hion to flag any external inquiries about my employment status as security threats.

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.