Natalie’s voice cracked into a scream.
“You think you’re better than me! You always have! But you’re nothing without the uniform. Without someone telling you where to go and what to do, you wouldn’t last a month in the real world!”
I didn’t move. I let her yell because nothing I said would land as hard as the fact that I wasn’t reacting.
Her breathing got heavier. Her hands shook. And for the first time in years, I saw her without the mask—the one she wears when she’s charming strangers or sweet-talking investors.
Mom tried to step in then.
“Girls, please. This isn’t—”
“This isn’t your fight, Mom,” I said without taking my eyes off Natalie.
Natalie’s expression shifted fast, like she’d realized she’d gone too far. She reached for her bag, muttered something about me regretting this, and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
Mom stayed, looking at me like she wanted to say something but couldn’t decide which side she was on.
She settled for, “You should have handled that differently.”
I didn’t bother answering.
After she left, I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, letting the cold glass steady me. I’d been in shouting matches before—in war zones, in training scenarios, in boardrooms—but something about watching Natalie’s control snap felt different.
It wasn’t just anger.
It was fear.
She’d built her whole identity on being the one who could outmaneuver anyone, especially me. Now she knew she’d hit a wall she couldn’t climb.
And people like Natalie don’t just walk away from that.
They look for cracks.
By midafternoon, Boyd had swung by. I told him about the blowup, keeping my voice even.
“She’s going to retaliate,” he said simply.
“I know.”
“What’s your play?”
“Let her make the first move,” I said. “But make sure I’m ready when she does.”
We spent an hour reviewing some of the property and business intel I’d gathered on Clear Harbor Ventures. Boyd, who had spent enough time in logistics to spot a scam from a mile away, pointed out three weaknesses in her plan—two legal, one operational.
“If she moves too fast, these will bury her,” he said.
“Good,” I replied.
The rest of the day was quieter, but the tension didn’t leave. Every time my phone buzzed, I half expected it to be Natalie. When it wasn’t, I almost wished it was. Better to face the next round than sit in the waiting.
That evening, I made a point of taking a walk through the neighborhood. The air was cool, the kind that hinted at rain without delivering. I nodded to a few neighbors, kept my hands in my jacket pockets, and thought about how Natalie’s outburst had shifted the balance.
Before, she’d been working angles quietly, slipping through side doors, trying to look respectable. Now, she’d gone loud. That meant she was running out of quiet options.
And when people like her run out of quiet options, they tend to make mistakes.
The next morning, I was halfway through my second cup of coffee when the knock came. It wasn’t Boyd’s usual two-tap knock or the lazy rap of a delivery driver. This one was steady. Official.
I opened the door to find Lieutenant Madison Clark standing there in civilian clothes, holding a manila envelope. Her eyes were sharp, but her tone stayed neutral.
“Mind if I come in, ma’am?”
I stepped aside.
She walked in, taking in the townhouse like she was cataloging every detail. When we sat at the kitchen table, she set the envelope down but didn’t slide it over right away.
“I owe you an apology,” she said. “The other day at the hospital, I shouldn’t have shown up with your sister. I didn’t know the full picture.”
“You figured it out, though,” I said.
