A hidden compartment.
Before I could shine the light inside, the front door burst open.
Wood exploded inward. My mother stormed in first, her cream coat absurd against my stained walls, Rachel right behind her, flushed and wild-haired, and my uncle Brent close behind with a tire iron in his grip.
“There,” Rachel said, pointing. “I told you.”
I stepped away from the opening. “You broke into my house.”
Mom barely acknowledged me. Her eyes locked on the hole. “Move.”
“No.”
Brent stepped forward, rolling the tire iron in his hand. “Leah, don’t make this ugly.”
“Ugly?” I snapped. “You threw me out because I wouldn’t fund Rachel’s spiritual vacation.”
Rachel’s face twisted. “It wasn’t a vacation.”
“It was five grand for sound baths and desert horseback riding.”
Mom lunged for the compartment, and I shoved the kitchen table into her path. It scraped loudly. She hit it with both hands and hissed, “You have no idea what that house is.”
“I know exactly what it is,” I shot back. “Mine.”
For one second, everything stilled.
Then Uncle Brent swung the tire iron into the table leg. Wood cracked. I flinched, and Rachel darted past him, dropping to her knees beside the opening. She reached inside and pulled out a rusted metal box the size of a briefcase.
