Page 24 of The Price of a Promise

Leaving or not, Cora was mine.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CORA

Vince didn’t give up any information the entire ride.He was famous for being a brick when my father ordered him to be, which chafed worse and worse until we arrived at my parents’ building.Vince accompanied me into the back elevator, stoic and thick-necked like always.Sometimes, on our good days, he was like a surrogate father to me.But most of the time, he was my actual father’s irritating hired grunt.

“You said we were going to the hospital,” I reminded Vince as he swiped the keycard before punching the button for the penthouse.

“Did I?”A smirk materialized on his face.

“I’m going to be so pissed if there’s no medical emergency.”I glared at the wall of the elevator as we soared upward toward the thirty-third floor.My body already knew the truth.There was no medical emergency.And now I had to prepare myself for…something.The not knowing was stressful, but I was used to it.My entire life had been wrought with the tension of waiting for the next round of bad news.

I’d thought after Chris’s death that there could be no more bad news.After all, it couldn’t get worse than losing my brother to suicide, right?But I’d been naïve then.All it meant was that the bad news got worse.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing the pristine back foyer of my parents’ penthouse.The lights were dimmed, and there was no noise save the hum of the elevator.Vince gestured for me to step off.

I’d been expecting a welcoming party, so this lack of immediate news unnerved me even more.Light spilled from the hallway leading to the kitchen, and I headed that way.From deeper inside the house, there was a muffled sob.My stomach twisted into a knot.

“Bernadette, we’re going to.”My father’s stern voice wafted down the hallway as I went deeper into the house.“It’s time.I’m not going to say it again.”

“Hello?”I slowed, gripping the strap of my purse.The weight of my new engagement ring reminded me of the big news I had.Now wasn’t the best time.I slipped it off my finger and tucked it into my Hermes bag.

“Cora.Come in.”My mother’s voice sounded watery and thin.I rounded the corner into the kitchen and found them huddled together at the dinette, a stack of loose, curling, legal-pad yellow pages between them.The tight nut of my stomach dropped to the floor.Whatever news awaited me, it wasn’t good.

“Sit down,” my father instructed.

”Is everything okay?”I drifted toward an open chair at the table.My mother’s ostentatiously large mosaic vase spilled with white roses.She always made sure the house was filled with fresh blooms.And somehow, gut-wrenching anxiety and the lingering smell of roses both conjured equally strong memories of home.

My father drew a deep breath, his gaze on my mother.“Bernadette.”

My mother pressed two fingertips to her forehead and rolled her lips inward.

“You guys are freaking me out.Just tell me already.What is going on?”

“There’s something you need to see,” my mother finally said.“Before you go back to LA.”

My gaze dropped to the papers between us.She rustled through some, and it was only then that I noticed the handwriting.The faint chicken scratch, the hurried swipe of the uppercase As, the flourish of Y that I’d always loved in secret.The handwriting that my father had called “too gay.”

My bottomed-out stomach rooted and sprouted tiny anxiety flowers.My throat tightened.This was Chris’s handwriting.At the top of one: “Dear family.”

This was a letter from Chris.

“We found this,” my mother began, but stopped short, her throat bobbing.

“You need to read it,” my father said brusquely.He held my gaze, something grave and imploring there.The last time I’d seen him like this was shortly after Chris’s funeral, when he issued the family mandate to never talk about my brother’s suicide openly.With anyone.Under any circumstances.The formal NDA came later, which I was forcefully encouraged to sign.At age eighteen and in the throes of distress, I signed it without a second thought.

Which was why the world thought Christopher Margulis had died in a freak kitchen accident.What really happened was he put a gun to his head in his bedroom, right before I got home from tennis practice my senior year of high school.

“I thought he didn’t leave a suicide note,” I forced past dry lips.

“He didn’t.The letter was found in his desk.”My father seemed like he wanted to add more, but he clamped his mouth shut.

“You two were so incredibly close,” my mother said, but this time she couldn’t control the emotion.She was the only one in the family who had ever openly cried about my brother—once.As for me, I had cried myself to sleep for two whole years.Had it ever been that way for my mom?Or maybe worse?

I reached out for her hand to give it a small squeeze.She didn’t let me into the sadness of her heart.Or even the joys.Nobody did in the Margulis family.

“I just think you’ll be interested to see what’s in here,” she finished in a whisper.“Take it with you and read it.But please take care of it.I would like it returned.”

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