Revenge of the Scapegoat Heiress novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Banner
Camilla walks out of prison and into the memorial gala for the man she was jailed for killing, refuses her sister's public forgiveness, and is barred from the house on pain of prison.
The banner on my parents' gate said CHADWICK REECE MEMORIAL GALA, FIFTH ANNIVERSARY.
I had been out of prison for three hours.
The man who drove me turned off his engine and looked at the banner with me.
His name was Kirk. My old cellmate had sent him to the gate with a coat and a ride, and he had said about ten words since.
"You don't have to go in," he said.
"It's my house."
I had two hundred and twelve dollars in an envelope, a gray release sweatshirt, and sixty-one letters to my mother that had come back unopened.
I got out of the truck.
A valet in a black vest stopped me at the drive and pointed me toward the kitchen door.
"Catering goes around the side, miss."
"I'm family," I said, and walked up the front steps.
The ballroom held two hundred people in evening clothes.
On an easel by the stage stood a huge portrait of Chadwick, smiling, ringed with white roses.
I had been convicted of killing him.
My mother saw me before anyone else did.
She crossed the room fast, took my elbow, and smiled.
"Camilla. Oh, honey, you're early. We were going to send a car on Monday."
In five years she had not sent one letter.
"Let's get you a plate," she said, and steered me into the side hall. "Sheridan's had the kitchen going all day."
A server walked past us with a covered silver tray.
He took it out through the garden door and across the dark lawn toward the guest cottage at the back.
Every window in the cottage was black.
"Who is that for?" I asked.
"Don't look, sweetheart. It's Sheridan's grief," my mother said. "She has the kitchen send Chadwick's favorite dinner out there every night. Please don't mention it. It upsets her."
"He's been dead five years."
"Everyone grieves differently."
From the ballroom a microphone clicked on.
"Wait. Is that my sister?"
Sheridan stood on the stage in a cream tweed jacket with pearl buttons, her hair pinned up, her eyes already wet.
She came down the steps with both arms open and held me so hard my ribs hurt.
"Look at you," she whispered. "You're so thin. I kept your room exactly how you left it."
She took my hand and did not let go.
She had held that hand at my sentencing too, and I had let her.
She led me up to the microphone while two hundred phones came up.
"Everyone, this is my sister Camilla," Sheridan said. "Five years ago she did something terrible to my husband and to this family. She has paid for it. Tonight, we forgive her."
A few people clapped. Someone near the front began to cry.
"Milla," Sheridan said softly, and held the microphone out to me. "Say you're sorry. Let's start fresh."
My father stood by the bar at the back, a glass in his hand, looking at the floor.
I had spent five years deciding what I would say to the people in this room.
I had never once pictured them handing me the words.
So I took the microphone.
"My name is Camilla Winslade," I said. "I told Chadwick Reece at a party that I would kill him, and I was wrong to say it. I did not kill him."
The room went quiet.
"I'm not sorry. I'm not leaving. And everyone who testified against me is standing in this room tonight."
Sheridan's smile did not move.
"She's been through so much," she told the crowd, in a voice that carried. "Please, be gentle with her."
My father crossed the floor and took the microphone out of my hand.
"My daughter is unwell," he said into it. "Please enjoy the evening."
Two men in dark suits took my arms above the elbows.
My father leaned in close, so only I could hear him.
"Get out of my house."
They walked me through the hall to the front steps. My mother followed, still smiling, her hand on my back.
"Sweetheart, don't make this harder," she said. "Your father has already called your parole officer. There's a letter. You are not welcome on this property."
"Mom."
"If you come back, they will send you back. We're only protecting you."
The door shut behind me.
Kirk was standing by his truck at the gate with the engine off. He had watched the whole thing through the open front doors.
He held out my coat.
I put it on. My hands wouldn't work the buttons, and he did them up without touching my skin.
"They barred me from my own house with one letter," I said.
Kirk opened the passenger door.
"Then we don't use the front door," he said.
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