Chapter 2: The Sound of Brass
On December 23rd, the Maine coastline was a portrait of hostile beauty. The sky was the color of bruised iron, and the ocean hurled itself against the rocky cliffs below the beach house with a violent, rhythmic booming. Inside, the house was dark, save for the flickering amber glow of the massive stone fireplace in the central living room.
I sat in Grandma Ruth’s worn leather armchair, a thick wool blanket draped over my knees. Next to me, sipping black coffee from a thermos, sat Sheriff Callahan. He was a bear of a man, an old friend of my grandmother’s, with a thick silver mustache and eyes that had seen every petty squabble and brutal tragedy this coastal town had to offer.
“You sure about this, Nora?” Callahan asked, his voice a low rumble over the sound of the wind.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, Sheriff,” I replied, my fingers tracing the edges of a thick, manila envelope resting in my lap.
By noon, the crunch of heavy tires on the gravel driveway announced their arrival. I stood up, moving to the edge of the window, staying hidden behind the heavy velvet curtains.
Four pristine, luxury rental vans rolled into the driveway. The doors slid open, and the circus began. Out poured twenty-three relatives, decked in matching crimson cashmere sweaters, dragging designer suitcases, oversized coolers, and mountains of perfectly wrapped gifts. They moved with the swagger of conquering royalty returning to their winter palace.
Aunt Patricia stepped out first, adjusting a fur-lined collar. She marched up the wooden steps to the expansive wrap-around porch.
“Nora!” she sang out, her voice sharp and bright, attempting to pierce the heavy oak front door. “Open up, darling! It’s freezing out here, and the caterers will be arriving with the tenderloin soon!”
I didn’t move. I didn’t make a sound.
Beside me, Sheriff Callahan stood tall, his hand resting casually on his utility belt.
Outside, the fake cheer began to curdle. “Nora!” my father barked, pounding a gloved fist against the wood. “Stop playing games. Open the door right now!”
Still, I waited. I wanted to see how far they would go. I didn’t have to wait long.
Through the frosted glass of the door, I saw my cousin Blake—a thirty-something real estate broker with slicked-back hair and a notorious temper—push his way to the front. He was carrying a heavy canvas bag.
“She’s probably asleep, the lazy cow,” I heard Blake mutter, loud enough for the wood to barely muffle it. “Move aside, Mom. I called a guy in town.”
From the driveway, a smaller, unmarked truck pulled up. A man in Carhartt overalls stepped out, carrying a heavy-duty Makita drill.
They hired a locksmith.
My breath caught in my throat. They hadn’t even waited five minutes. They hadn’t tried to call my phone. They had preemptively hired a man to break into my home, assuming their sheer numbers and familial title gave them the divine right to shatter my locks.
Sheriff Callahan’s jaw tightened. “Well,” he whispered, a dangerous edge to his tone. “That changes things.”
I listened to the metallic clack of the locksmith setting his drill bit against the antique brass lock of Grandma’s door. The high-pitched whine of the motor spun up.
It was time.
I stepped forward, gripped the heavy iron handle, and threw the door open just as the drill bit touched the metal.
The locksmith jumped back in shock, dropping his tool. The entire family, gathered on the porch like a flock of expectant vultures, froze.
“Good afternoon,” I said, my voice eerily calm, carrying over the howling wind.
Aunt Patricia’s shocked expression instantly morphed back into a plastic smile. “Nora! Finally. We thought you were—”
“I know what you thought,” I cut her off. I stepped out onto the threshold. The freezing wind whipped my hair across my face, but I didn’t flinch. “You thought you could drill through my front door because waiting in the cold was too inconvenient.”
Blake sneered, stepping forward to shield the locksmith. “Come on, Nora. Don’t be dramatic. You weren’t answering. We have perishables in the van. It’s tradition.”
I looked at the mountain of luggage, the expensive coolers, the children already running toward the fragile sand dunes, crushing the protected sea grass beneath their boots.
“Tradition,” I echoed, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. “Tradition is just a ghost story you tell yourselves to justify taking something long enough to mistake it for ownership.”
Mom pushed her way to the front, her face pale beneath her heavy makeup. “Nora, sweetie, what is wrong with you? Let us in. We’re your parents.”
“You were my parents every Christmas you forgot to invite me, too,” I said evenly. “But you didn’t seem to need a locksmith to find me then.”
My father’s face flushed a deep, angry purple. “I will not stand on this porch and be lectured by an ungrateful child! Move out of the doorway.” He took a menacing step forward, attempting to physically intimidate me into stepping aside.
That was when Sheriff Callahan stepped out from the shadows of the hallway, towering over me, his badge catching the dull gray light of the winter sun.
“I’d suggest you hold your ground right there, David,” Callahan rumbled.
The sight of the uniform acted like a physical blow. The family physically recoiled.
“You called the cops on your own family?” Lauren shrieked, clutching her designer handbag to her chest like a shield. “Are you insane?”
“No,” Callahan answered for me. “Ruth did.”
The wind seemed to hold its breath as twenty-three pairs of eyes widened in terror.
