“Reporters,” he said quietly.
Everyone froze. I heard tires crunching on snow. Doors opening. Distant voices calling out. Cameras clicking. Someone must have shared the livestream link. Someone must have recognized the last name Whitmore. Someone must have contacted the local news. Because the press had arrived. And the world outside my parents’ home was about to know everything.
“Reporters,” James said, and the word felt heavy in the air even without his voice carrying it.
Faces turned toward the front windows, bodies shifting in little anxious movements. No one moved closer, but everyone strained to see through the curtains. Headlights washed over the snow again, then settled. I heard car doors slam, the crunch of boots on the icy driveway, and that particular hum of excited voices that always follows cameras.
In Lily’s tablet, the viewer count jumped as if responding to the noise outside. One thousand. One thousand two hundred. One thousand six hundred. The number rolled like a slot machine that wouldn’t stop.
My dad started barking orders. He told people to stay away from the windows, to ignore whatever was happening outside, to remember that this was a private gathering. His voice had that tense cheerfulness he used when he was about to lose control but wanted everyone to pretend he was still in charge.
My mom moved closer to him, one hand clutching at his sleeve. I could see fear rising in her eyes. Not fear for my daughter. Fear for the image she had curated for decades.
Her gaze flicked from Lily’s tablet to James, then to me, calculating, searching for something she could still manipulate.
Maria was standing near the arm of a sofa, both hands shakily wrapped around a mug of coffee she had not yet tasted. She looked like she was about to be sick. I went to her side and touched her arm. She flinched slightly, then let out a low, shaky breath. She murmured that I needed to know something else, that we were not done yet, not even close.