The Golden Child

Julian. The black sheep. The brother who walked away from the Vance fortune and never looked back.

Clara copies the proton-mail address, transferring it to a secure note on her burner phone. The next morning is Saturday, a brief reprieve from the weekday rush. Sunlight streams through the kitchen windows, catching the dust motes over the sink.

David is in the backyard with Leo. The physical manifestation of the perfect father.

Clara stands at the sink, washing a coffee mug. Through the glass, she watches David pitch a baseball to their eleven-year-old son. He is patient, correcting Leo's stance, laughing when a wild pitch sails into the rhododendrons.

He doesn't look like a man who spent his adolescence in a state penitentiary. He doesn't look like someone capable of a crime severe enough to warrant a total identity erasure. He looks like a man who loves his son.

But Clara knows about the panic attack. She knows about the unread emails to Julian. The man pitching the baseball is a hollowed-out shell, performing the life Eleanor bought for him.

The patio door slides open. Leo jogs into the kitchen, his cheeks flushed from the cold air.

"Dad says my swing is getting better," Leo pants, opening the fridge and grabbing a juice box. "He said I just need to focus on the follow-through."

"He's right," Clara says, drying her hands. She keeps her voice light. "Your dad is a good coach."

Leo wrestles the plastic straw out of the wrapper. "Yeah. Grandma says the same thing."

Clara’s hands freeze on the towel. "Grandma?"

"Yeah. When she picked me up from school last week." Leo jams the straw into the foil hole. "She said Dad is really good at following instructions. Better than Uncle Marcus."

Clara turns around, leaning against the counter. She fights to keep her expression entirely neutral. "Did she? What else did Grandma say?"

Leo shrugs, taking a long drink. The normalcy of a child delivering poison. "Just weird stuff. She asked if Dad was stressed about the foundation board."

"And what did you say?"

"I said he was fine." Leo looks up, wiping a drop of juice from his chin. "But then she said she wasn't surprised. She said Dad owes her everything."

Clara’s stomach tightens. Eleanor is probing the perimeter, testing the structural integrity of the family unit through an eleven-year-old boy.

"Grandma says funny things sometimes, Leo," Clara says, her throat dry. "You know she just worries about us."

"I guess." Leo crushes the empty juice box, tossing it toward the recycling bin. He misses. He bends down to pick it up, his voice muffled by the counter. "She plays this weird game with him, too."

Clara steps closer. "What kind of game?"

Leo drops the box into the bin and stands up. He looks out the window at David, who is currently retrieving the lost baseball from the bushes.

"Whenever she gives him money for the foundation, or buys us something big, she reminds him." Leo frowns, struggling to understand the adult dynamics he has witnessed.

"Reminds him of what, sweetheart?" Clara asks softly.

Leo said, 'Grandma calls him her special project. The one she had to buy.'