Six months of work. $45,000 in projected income. Gone.
I pulled up my client roster. The healthcare project had been my anchor, the big contract that let me take on smaller, experimental work. Without it… Without it, I had maybe four months of operating capital before I would start missing my own bills. Four months to find new clients in a market where everyone wanted to see your previous work, where reputation was everything, where a terminated contract would raise red flags.
I sat down slowly, wincing at the bruise already forming on my hip. The old Skyler—the one from this morning—would have cried again. Would have gone downstairs and tried to explain, tried to make peace, tried to smooth everything over because that’s what kept the household functional.
But that Skyler had died in the rose garden. This Skyler just felt cold.
I didn’t go downstairs for the rest of the day. I heard my parents and their friends laughing on the patio, heard the clink of glasses and Dad’s booming voice explaining his short game strategy for the putting green that didn’t exist yet.
At 7 p.m., I packed up my laptop and left through the front door without saying goodbye. I drove to a coffee shop in downtown Austin, found a corner table away from the windows, and tried to figure out how badly I was screwed.
The answer: pretty badly.
No major client. Bruised hip that hurt every time I shifted in my chair. Parents who had made it clear they wouldn’t leave voluntarily and had apparently lawyered up for a fight I couldn’t afford.
My phone rang. Dad. On the caller ID.
I almost didn’t answer. But muscle memory from two years of conditioning made me pick up.
“Skyler.” His voice was different now—annoyed, not angry. “Where are you?”
“Coffee shop. Working.”
“Well, get back here. The irrigation system for the putting green isn’t working right, and the installer already left. I need you to troubleshoot it.”
Of course he did. Because in addition to being his landlord, his ATM, and his punching bag, I was also apparently his tech support.
“I’ll walk you through it,” I said, putting the call on speaker. “What’s the error message?”
For the next fifteen minutes, I patiently guided him through the settings on the irrigation controller. Press this button. Turn this dial. No, the other direction. Yes, I’m sure.
“Got it,” he finally said. “The zone timer was set wrong. Fixed now.”
“Great. I’ll—”
But I stopped. Because I had heard something in my earbuds that made my blood turn to ice. A rustling sound. Then Dad’s voice—but not directed at me. Directed at someone else.
The phone was still on. He had tried to hang up and failed. The buttons on smartphones could be finicky when you had dirty hands from gardening. He had fumbled it, set it down instead of ending the call.
I could hear everything.
“Amateur job,” Dad was saying. “I told them I wanted professional-grade equipment, but Skyler’s credit limit wouldn’t cover it. At least it’s done.”
Mom’s voice, closer. “Did she cry about the roses?”
“Like a baby. You should’ve seen her face.” He laughed. “Thought she was going to faint.”
“Good. Maybe now she’ll understand who’s really in charge around here.”
My hand tightened on my phone. I should hang up. This was eavesdropping. This was—
“Did you talk to the lawyer again?” Mom asked.
“This morning.” He sounded pleased. “He said we’re golden. With my knee condition, the court will classify this as ‘medically necessary housing.’ She can try to evict us, but it’ll take over a year, and we’ll get hardship exemptions the whole way. By that point, we’ll have adverse possession arguments. Maybe even claim an ownership stake since we’ve been on the property. She’s stupid enough to let us stay.”
Mom’s voice dripped with satisfaction. “And now she’s lost that big client. She’ll be desperate. Easier to control. Speaking of which…”
Dad’s voice got sly.
“Once we get back from Italy, I’m changing the lock on that upstairs office. Turn it into my cigar room. She can work from the kitchen table like a normal person.”
“Perfect. And we should talk about refinancing the property. If we can convince her to put our names on the deed for estate planning purposes—”
“One step at a time, Kate. First the Italy trip. Let her pay for that. Prove she’s still obedient. Then we tighten the screws.”
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