Page 63 of The Birthday Girl
Ezra kept his pace measured, his face unreadable, though his thoughts were anything but. He watched her gather the world’s sympathy like roses tossed at her feet. He had seen clients cry for cameras, had even coached them through it, but she slipped into sorrow as easily as people slip into silk. The ease of it made his stomach turn.
The moment they crossed the threshold into the church, the outside roar fell away, swallowed by organ music. The cool air smelled faintly of polish and a mixture of colognes and perfumes. The pews were packed with family and old friends of the family mixed with rivals and opportunists scattered through the rows.
Every eye turned toward the door as Tahlia entered, and the ushers led them to the front row, past a gallery of faces that flickered with curiosity. Heather dabbed at her eyes again, Ezra straightened his jacket, and Tahlia ducked her chin lower, as if the weight of the world had pressed it down.
The grieving daughter had arrived.
A ripple of murmurs moved through the pews, hushed voices weaving under the drone of the organ. Old neighbors pressed handkerchiefs to their mouths, some genuinely weeping, others watching Tahlia with equal parts reverence and suspicion. They whispered to one another about the absence of caskets, about how no one had seen the bodies, and about how the explosion might not have left anything at all.
Two massive portraits of Steve and Tisha Banks dominated the altar, framed by roses and candles, their glossy smiles turned into saints’ icons. The effect was both beautiful and hollow. A memorial without bodies was a stage play, and everyone knewit. Still, people filled the pews, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the aisles, eager to witness history, or scandal, unfold.
Tahlia lowered her head and sat, the picture of humility, as she let a single tear slip free, catching the soft glow of the altar candles. Gasps fluttered through the crowd as if grief itself had trickled down her cheek. She paused long enough to let them absorb it before dabbing her eyes.
The organ swelled, vibrating through the wooden pews. An usher moved to close the double doors, muting the outside chaos of sirens, reporters, and clicking shutters. For the first time all morning, the sanctuary grew quiet enough to hear the soft sobs sprinkled among the crowd.
Ezra sat stiffly, his hands folded in his lap. He told himself to keep his eyes forward, to do his job, but a thought gnawed at him. Grief was supposed to fracture people, but Tahlia had weaponized hers.
The organ faded, and the preacher stepped forward, his black robe swaying as he mounted the pulpit. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and looked out over the crowded sanctuary.
“We gather here today not with answers, but with faith,” he began, his voice deep and steady, a cadence that carried both comfort and authority. “The Bible tells us in Psalms ninety:The days of our years are threescore years and ten. And if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow. For it is soon cut off, and we fly away.” He paused, letting the scripture breathe in the silence.
“Steve and Tisha Banks did not live to see those years promised,” he continued, his voice trembling just slightly. “Their time was shorter, and their departure was sudden, but the Word says God makes no mistakes. Even when tragedy tears at our flesh, and even when we cry out asking, ‘Why them, Lord? Why now?’, we are reminded that His plan is perfect, though it may not be clear to us on this side of heaven.”
Heads bowed, and amens rippled softly through the congregation. The preacher spread his arms, his robe sleeves falling like wings. “We remember a man and woman who built, who gave, who raised, who loved. A legacy that cannot be measured by the days they walked among us, but by the lives they touched. And we pray, not only for comfort, but for unity among those they leave behind.”
A short prayer was followed by whispered voices rising and falling in unison. Then the preacher closed his Bible, set it gently on the podium, and folded his hands. His tone softened into reverence. “At this time, we will open the floor to family, beginning with their beloved daughter, Ms. Tahlia Banks.”
A hush fell heavy as Tahlia rose from her seat. She moved with solemn grace, fingertips brushing the strand of pearls at her throat. Every camera inside the church followed her ascent as though the moment had been choreographed. She reached the podium, rested both hands on the wood, and allowed the silence to stretch until it trembled. Her lashes fluttered, and her lips parted as if the words themselves weighed too much.
Just as she was about to speak, the doors at the back of the sanctuary banged open. Gasps scattered through the pews, and heads turned. Reporters jerked their cameras around, and there was Danielle, framed in the doorway, both hands gripping the handle of a stroller she shoved forward with deliberate force. Beside her, Miracle walked tall, chin raised, eyes daring anyone to block their path.
The baby stirred, fussing because of the noise, and Danielle leaned down to whisper that everything was alright, her expression fierce with a mother’s protectiveness and a daughter’s fury.
“Tyricka and I are here,” she announced, her voice breaking but loud enough to carry. “We’re family, too.”
The room fractured. Some people whispered, and some nodded their approval, while others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The preacher froze, hands gripping the pulpit. Ezra stiffened on the front pew, his stomach twisting as he caught the look of anger flashing across Tahlia’s face.
She recovered almost instantly, lips curving into a trembling smile as though relief, not rage, had greeted her sister’s arrival, but Ezra saw it. He always saw it.
Danielle shoved the stroller forward, her voice breaking, but loud enough to slice through the stunned silence. “Bitch, I don’t know why you’re up there playing with these people. You killed our parents just like you killed my friends. They can buy that shit if they want to, but I know the truth, and so do you!”
Gasps snapped across the sanctuary, and the preacher’s hand froze midair. Tahlia’s knuckles reddened as she gripped the podium. Half the congregation leapt to their feet, shouting over one another, some in disbelief, while others were in agreement. A woman wailed and covered her ears, and cameras lifted higher, recording every second. The portraits of Steve and Tisha seemed to stare them down with frozen smiles while chaos churned beneath them.
The preacher cleared his throat, his voice heavy with warning. “Sister Danielle… this is a house of worship. We must keep our hearts open to healing, not—”
“I don’t need your sermon, Reverend,” Danielle snapped. “I’ve heard enough prayers to last a lifetime, and they still didn’t save my parents.”
Danielle stopped halfway to the pulpit, tightly gripping the stroller’s handle. Her eyes shone wet under the pulpit lights. “She knew,” she said, jabbing her finger toward Tahlia. “She knew they were gone weeks ago, and she didn’t tell me. Instead of picking up a phone or looking me in the eye, she planned this whole circus as if she were their only child.”
Miracle stood at her side, arms folded, her chin tilted high in defiance. “Say it louder, Dani,” she urged, her voice carrying to the back of the sanctuary. “Let them hear you.”
The baby whimpered, as if even she felt the heat sparking in the room. Danielle leaned over, pressed her lips to Tyricka’s crown, then straightened and lifted her chin. “This is my daughter, theirgranddaughter, and she wasn’t invited either. That bitch is the devil. Don’t be fooled by those fake ass tears!”
Tahlia smiled, working overtime to keep her voice steady as she spoke. “Danielle, you’re welcome here. You’ve always been welcome. Grief makes us say things we don’t mean—”
“Cut the bullshit!” Danielle’s voice cracked so loud it bounced against the vaulted ceiling. “Don’t you dare stand up there and pretend like you give a damn about me saying goodbye to my parents. This was for you, the cameras, and the headlines.”
Ezra rose halfway from his seat, instinct telling him to intervene, but he caught himself, frozen by the spectacle. In Tahlia’s eyes, he saw a flash of rage burning through the mask before she swallowed it down. She looked like she might shatter the podium with her hands.
