The feeling of freedom swept over me like an ocean. I was ecstatic. Mom drove for what seemed like three hours, and we finally stopped in a wide field where Stephen was waiting. I stared at Mom, confused, but she ignored me.
"You made it, ma!" Stephen greeted, all smiles.
"I told you I would. I've planned this for years, so don't play with me," Mom said, laughing.
"So what's next?" Stephen asked.
"We can't use the airport—he must've realized we're no longer at the mansion. I called my brother; his private jet will be here in two minutes," Mom answered.
I cleared my throat to join the conversation. "Hi, Kendra," Stephen said, but I only nodded.
Mom wasn't wrong. A few minutes later, the whir of an aircraft filled the air as a jet touched down. "Hey, sister!" came a familiar voice. It was Uncle Festus. I'd last seen him when I was six.
"Uncle Festus!" I screamed, running to him. I was the only one who called him that.
"My angel, you've grown," he said, enveloping me in a hug. "Get inside," he added, pointing toward the jet. I ran in, giddy. He and my mother exchanged pleasantries; then Mom climbed into a car and drove away.
"What? Mom!" I yelled.
"Kendra, you have to be strong. You're a big girl, and your mom—my sister—wants the best for you," Uncle Festus said. His voice was steady, but his eyes told me he'd argued with her about leaving.
"But why is she going back? Where's she going?" I asked, tears pricking my eyes.
"She's going back to your father. There's something she has to do. I told her not to, but you know your mom," he sighed.
Oh God, I thought, and the knot in my stomach tightened.
When we reached Manchester—where Uncle Festus lived—I felt hollow, as if sadness had taken over me. I tried calling Mom, but her phone wouldn't go through. Uncle Festus admitted he'd had the same problem; he promised to send someone to check on her. That small assurance steadied me a little.
Back in New York, my mother drove straight into the mansion and found my father waiting outside with a phalanx of security guards.
"Where have you been, and where is my daughter?" he demanded, fury lacing his voice.
"Your daughter? Do you have one?" Mom shot back. His hand flew, striking her face, but she slapped him back without hesitation.
"I have nothing to fear now. If you ever hit me again, I'll do worse," she said, then walked away.
"Did she just hit me?" my father fumed, more to himself than anyone else, and stormed inside to confront her.
"Shantel, you think you've grown wings? I'll cut them for you," he roared.
"Oh, shut up. There's nothing you or fifty men can do, okay?" Mom snapped, venom in her words. My father lunged and began to beat her. She didn't struggle. Instead, she produced an injection she had prepared earlier and plunged it into his neck.
"What did you just do?" he cried, pain and disbelief in his eyes.
"What I've always wanted to do," she replied. She shoved him onto the bed, then walked out onto the veranda.
"All security and staff, gather round!" she called, her voice cold and authoritative. "You are dismissed. We won't be needing your services anymore. I'll transfer your salaries so you can move out."
"YES, MA'AM!" they chorused.
The next day my father lay like a shell of a man—a vegetable. He could not move or speak. He wept silently as Mom entered the room.
"Look who's crying," she laughed. "Hills, you've done me more harm than good. You killed my mother, my friends, and now Grace. Who do you think you are? I want you to know what it feels like to be helpless. For your information—I sold your company, the cars, and this mansion. I took everything you had. I'm just waiting for you to die. You should be dead in five minutes."
He struggled, whimpered, and could not move. I felt nothing but cold relief. He deserved it.