In Death I Obeyed You Most Chapter 09
In the months following the burial, the once-bustling townhouse devolved into a silent mausoleum.
Dad resigned from his managing director role at the investment bank. Rather than leaving the city, he poured every waking hour into assisting federal prosecutors with the trials and established a foundation in my name dedicated to rescuing exploited youths—Nora’s Light. It was his desperate plea for penance. Yet no matter how many grants he funded, no matter how many grief-stricken testimonies he gave before congressional committees, late at night he still sat alone in my dark room, clutching the frayed jacket I had brought from the countryside, weeping silently into the shadows.
“If only I had asked just one more question that day…” he would whisper to the void, digging his nails raw into his palms. “If only I hadn’t buried myself in work…”
As for Mom, her psychological collapse was absolute.
Deemed unfit for criminal trial, she was permanently remanded to a high-security psychiatric facility in Upstate New York. There were no designer dresses, no sycophantic galas—only padded white walls and a heavy regimen of anti-psychotics.
Orderlies often observed her sitting by the reinforced window, cradling a bundle of twisted bedsheets against her chest like an infant. She would caress the empty air with cracked fingers, humming a fractured lullaby:
“Hush now, Nora… the soup won’t burn you anymore… Mommy threw the cold vegetables away… from now on, we only eat sweet strawberries…”
Whenever an attendant tried to wash the soiled linens, she would screech like a wounded animal, defending the empty void until a sedative calmed her limbs.
Meanwhile, across town in a state-run foster group home, Chloe’s world was reduced to ash.
Stripped of her heiress status and the armor of Mom’s favoritism, she was just another ostracized ward of the state. The privileges she once took for granted had vanished. Whispers of her calculated malice—how she orchestrated her sister’s fall and facilitated her death—had spread through the welfare network. No child sat with her at lunch; no one played with her in the yard.
When night fell, she curled tightly on the edge of her metal bunk, jolting awake from recurring nightmares. In her dreams, a bruised figure with hollow eyes stood forever atop the staircase, descending step by slow step, whispering in a chilling monotone:
“I’m here to protect you, little sister.”
She would bury her face in the coarse blanket, sobbing until she choked. But this time, no one was coming to scoop her into their arms, kiss her forehead, and whisper that it was all Nora’s fault.