Bound to the devil's debt

It's 6:00 a.m., and I was already elbow-deep in pastry dough. It felt like every other morning, with my apron tied around my waist and the smell of rosemary and butter filling the air. This was my normal routine, and I loved it. I had a peaceful life, although it was exhausting most times, it was the perfect life for me. My phone buzzed against the metal counter, but I ignored it at first. I thought it would be Isabella. Isabella is my colleague and the only friend I have in Manhattan. She skips most of her morning duties, always with one excuse or another. This wasn't going to be one of those mornings because I already had my day planned out. I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and glanced at the screen. Unknown number. But it was the area code that made me go still — New York City. I grew up there. Built a life there. Then dismantled it, quietly and deliberately, and walked away without looking back. The only thread still connecting me to that city was my father, and even that thread had been fraying for years. It buzzed again almost immediately. I watched it ring for a while, its sound alone made my stomach tighten in a way I couldn't explain. I picked it up. “Is this Elara Vance?” the voice on the other end was flat, more official, no emotions, no recognition, just flat. “Yes”. I said slowly. “This is Officer Reyes with the New York City Police Department. We are calling regarding a Richard Vance,” he paused. “Are you his daughter?” he asked. “Yes,” I said again, dropping the dishtowel almost immediately. “Ms Vance, I'm sorry to inform you that your father passed away earlier this morning. He had committed suicide, he was found hanging in his home office.” He paused. The words landed wrong, like they were meant for someone else. “Wha……” The sound barely made it out. “I'm so sorry, but we found your contact information listed as his next of Kin..” Next of kin?.. Richard and I haven't spoken in four years. I've never visited, never called or returned exactly two of his messages in all that time. And yet someone in some file, in some system, my name was written next to his as the person to call when everything ended. “Ms Vance? Are you still there? “Yes”. That was the longest word I seemed capable of producing. I don't remember how the rest of the call went. I remember agreeing to things. I remember writing down an address on the back of a receipt, pressing hard enough that the pen nearly tore through. I remember standing very still while the kitchen moved around me like I had already left. “Elara,” Isabella, walked over to me, her dark eyes scanning through my face. “I've been screaming your name, Are you good!” “Family things,” I said. “She didn't push. That was one thing I appreciated about her, she knew when not to. I told her I needed to speak with Marcus and walked out of the kitchen before she could respond. Marcus, my manager, granted the rest of the day off. I went to the locker room, changed my clothes and headed straight home. I sat at the corner of my room trying to figure out what just happened. My father would not have done this. That was the first thought, clear and certain beneath everything else. Richard Vance loved his life, he loved it enough to make other people pay for it. He was not a man who surrendered. He was a man who calculated, who negotiated, who found ways to shift the cost of his choices onto whoever was standing closest. I had been that person once. My mother had been that person before me. I had spent years making peace with what he was. He had made choices that cost us everything, and he had kept making choices after that, pulling himself deeper into a world I wanted no part of. So I left. I built something small and clean and entirely my own. I had different feelings but none of them were grief. I wasn't happy he had died, but I wasn't sad either. The police had told me to come for his belongings and his body. I picked up my phone and saw a series of calls from Isabella. I had left without telling her, and she was probably worried sick. I called her immediately. “Hey girl, you left without telling me,” she sounded worried, just as i guessed. “I'm fine, just having a little family trouble." Nothing I can't take care of.” “ You're sure?” “Yeah I am”. No, I wasn't sure deep down. “ Alright then, you're still coming tonight? The Hargrove thing, they're expecting both of us” The Hargrove event. A private dinner party on the Upper East Side, the kind where the tips alone could cover half a month's rent. Isabella had landed it two weeks ago, and we had both been counting on it Ohhh…. s**t i forgot, my head is a mess. “Nah babe, i will have to sit this out.” “Alright then, I'll see you tomorrow morning. Take care of yourself,” she hung up. I called Marcus next. Thank goodness, he isn't a hard head. He granted me a week to finish up everything I had to do. I took the paper, wrote down the address, picked up some clothes, my wallet and some necessary things . Thankfully, everything fitted into a small bag. I headed to the train station. Then I booked a train ticket back to the part of the city I had spent four years pretending did not exist. The train was quieter than I expected for that hour. I found a window seat and watched Manhattan dissolve behind me. I hadn't planned what I would feel on this ride. I hadn't planned anything past getting on the train. But sitting there with my bag between my feet and the city falling away outside the glass, the memories came anyway, just in pieces. The smell of my father's home office. The sound of his voice when he was in a good mood, which was rare enough that I had memorized it. I pressed my forehead against the glass and stayed like that until the city disappeared completely.” I went straight to the morgue when I arrived. And there he was, my father's body laid out in front of me. Bruising around his neck. His tattoo is still there, exactly where I remembered it from childhood, every detail preserved like time had forgotten to move on him. I stood there for a while, trying to piece together what his last moments might have looked like. One tear slipped down before I could stop it. I wiped it away and walked back out. I signed the necessary papers and headed over to the funeral home. It felt strange, walking in there to plan something for a man I had spent four years trying to forget. I picked up a brochure near the entrance, started thinking about what he would have wanted, what he would have wanted his burial to be like. The attendant came over, young, soft-spoken, the kind of face built for delivering bad news gently. "Are you here for the Vance arrangements?" "Yes," I said. "I'm his daughter, I'm here to...." "Oh." She stopped me there, something shifting in her expression. "Those have already been taken care of." I stared at her. "Sorry?" "The arrangements. The coffin, the date, everything." She said it carefully, like she was worried about my reaction. "Someone came in this morning." “Who?” I asked, confused “They didn't leave a name.” She stared at me for a couple of minutes. I didn't say anything for a moment. I just stood there holding a brochure for coffins I wasn't going to need to choose from. She handed me an envelope. Cream colored, no name on the front. Inside was an invitation card to my own father's funeral. Already planned. Already scheduled. I turned it over slowly. On the back, one line, written in a fine font. "I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU.”