Chapter 1 - THE PARTY IN THE WHITE MUSEUM
On that Saturday afternoon, I drove out to Mark’s home in the Dallas suburbs. Beside me on the passenger seat was a wrapped telescope—the very present Lily had been whispering in my ear about for months.
I had barely reached the front porch when the heavy oak door swung open, and Lily ran straight into my arms.
“Mommy… I mean, Grandpa!”
She wrapped her arms tightly around my neck, sporting the bright, unmistakable smile of a nine-year-old on her birthday. I gently squeezed her shoulders, feeling her warm energy. But before I could even hug her back properly, a sharp, cold voice echoed from the living room:
“Careful, Lily! Don’t run around like that—you’re going to knock something over!”
Lily’s grip loosened instantly. Her vibrant smile vanished, replaced by a look of sheer panic. She took a step back, crossing her arms tightly, her eyes dropping to the floor. That was the first warning sign. Not Vanessa’s cold, sharp tone, but Lily’s immediate defensive reflex. A happy, excited little girl had transformed into a terrified child in less than a second.
I stepped inside. The house was packed with nearly twenty people: relatives, neighbors, Lily’s classmates, and parents. Though filled with balloons, gifts, food, and laughter, the air inside felt suffocatingly tense.
This house didn't feel like a home. It felt like a white museum.
Ever since Vanessa moved in two years ago, she brought strict, unyielding rules. Everything had an exact place down to the millimeter. Shoes were lined up with military precision. Meals occurred at exact times. Surrounding us were expensive cream-colored sofas, paper-thin crystal glasses, and fragile ceramic decorations that no one—especially Lily—was allowed to touch.
“Looks sophisticated, doesn't it?” Helen, my younger sister, whispered as she walked up to me, noticing my eyes scanning the room. She pointed toward the base of the staircase.
Standing at the center of the living room on a dark ebony pedestal was a crystal horse nearly two feet tall. The chandelier light caught its transparent contours, making it glow with a brilliant yet icy light.
“Vanessa bought it on her trip to Houston last month. Word is she paid around three thousand dollars for it,” Helen murmured.
“Three thousand dollars for that?” I frowned. “Placing a fragile, three-thousand-dollar piece of glass right in the middle of a room full of running children? I call that a ticking liability.”
“She calls it art,” Helen shrugged.
I stared at the delicate crystal sculpture, then watched the children racing past it every few minutes. A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. I almost suggested moving it to Mark’s study for safety, but I stopped myself. It’s not my house. Don't be the overbearing grandfather. I swallowed my warning.
Trying to shake off the uneasy feeling, I wandered down the hallway near the study. The door was slightly ajar. Through the crack, I saw Vanessa standing in front of a filing cabinet. She quickly shoved a small picture frame under a stack of folders in the bottom drawer, locking it with a small brass key.
As she turned around, I caught a glimpse of the photo inside the frame: the gentle, smiling face of my late daughter, Sarah.
Vanessa looked up and caught my eye through the crack. For a fraction of a second, her flawless demeanor froze. But just as quickly, she offered a polite smile, smoothed down her unwrinkled pastel dress, and stepped out as if nothing had happened.
“Mr. Thomas, can I get you a glass of red wine?” she asked, her voice dripping with practiced sweetness.
Before I could answer, a horrifying sound shattered the air.
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CRASH!
The sharp, deafening sound of shattering crystal echoed across the hardwood floor, instantly killing every conversation. The entire living room fell into a dead, suffocating silence.
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