If you want to be Silas’s wife, you take care of his mess, or you get back on the plane to Ohio.
The sun rose, painting the canyon in hues of orange and pink. Gemma Brooks’s voice had been a constant drone throughout the night, her “live reports” painting me as increasingly erratic.
She was still out there, just beyond the gates, broadcasting.
I kneaded dough, my hands a flurry of motion. The smell of fresh bread began to fill the kitchen, mingling with the scent of woodsmoke from the living room.
“What are you doing?” Eli asked, watching me pull the warm loaves from the makeshift oven – a large Dutch oven placed directly in the embers of the hearth.
“I’m going to give them a show,” I said, my voice calm despite the tremor in my hands.
I wrapped seven warm loaves of bread in clean linen. I also retrieved the watermarked studio trust receipt from where I’d hidden it. It felt like a flimsy piece of paper, but it held the weight of Victoria’s lies.
“You’re not going out there,” Eli said, stepping in front of the door. His face was a mask of concern, a stark contrast to his earlier cynicism. “She’ll have you arrested.”
“Let her,” I said, gently moving him aside. “Sometimes, the only way to win is to show them exactly what they don’t want to see.”
I walked towards the main gates, the warm bread cradled in my arms, the receipt tucked into my pocket. Beyond the bars, a small crowd had gathered. News vans, camera crews, and at the center, Gemma Brooks, dazzling in a bright red power suit, holding a microphone with her production team bustling around her.
Her camera was pointed directly at the gates. She saw me. Her eyes widened, surprised that I wasn’t hiding.
“And here she is, folks!” Gemma exclaimed, turning her attention fully to me, her smile a little too bright. “The alleged trespasser, Norah Bennett, making a dramatic appearance!”
I walked right up to the gates, close enough for her camera to capture my face clearly. The children, even little Toby, stood at the windows, watching.
“Ms. Brooks,” I said, my voice steady, projecting it as much as I could. “I believe there’s been a terrible misunderstanding.”
Gemma recovered quickly. “Misunderstanding? Our sources say you’ve been refusing to leave the premises, causing untold distress to the Montgomery family!”
“And what about the untold distress of seven starving children locked inside this house?” I asked, holding up a warm loaf of bread. Its aroma drifted across the cold morning air. “Children that Finch Entertainment has hidden from the world for six years?”
A ripple went through the crowd. Gemma’s smile faltered.
“Children?” she stammered, clearly caught off guard. “What… what children?”
I pulled out the watermarked trust receipt, holding it up for the camera to see. The studio logo, the date, the staggering sum of $400,000 monthly, all plainly visible.
“This is a trust receipt,” I announced, my voice clear and firm. “From Finch Entertainment, signed in 2018. It details the misappropriation of nearly five million dollars from the children’s inheritance.”
The camera zoomed in. The crowd murmured. Victoria Finch’s carefully constructed narrative was starting to unravel.
“Why is Finch Entertainment,” I asked directly into Gemma’s lens, “spending millions on public relations to cover up a ‘stalker’ story, when they should be providing heat, food, and care for the children whose money they’ve stolen?”
Gemma’s face went white. She looked wildly at her producer, then back at me. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Suddenly, a furious roar erupted from the black SUV parked behind Gemma’s crew. Victoria Finch herself, her face contorted in rage, sprang out of the vehicle.
She ran straight for the camera equipment. With a guttural yell, she yanked at the power cables connecting Gemma’s live transmission.
The screen on Gemma’s monitor flickered once, then died. The broadcast, mid-sentence, went black.
A gasp went through the crowd. Victoria stood there, breathing heavily, a severed cable clutched in her hand, her public image shattered in a single, desperate act.
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