Erica Sinclair - Family Ties (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

Early in the morning, a knock stirs her awake.
The door creaks open, and a tall man in a navy-blue suit steps inside, his tie loosened. His presence is solid, composed.
“Morning,” he says, his voice gravelly but not unfriendly, his eyes assessing. “I’m Captain Willard. How was your night, Ms. Sinclair?”

Erica straightens slowly, wincing at a kink in her neck. She considers sarcasm - something about fine Egyptian cotton and five-star accommodations - but swallows it.
“Thank you for the use of your couch, Captain.” she says instead.

Willard smirks, appreciative of the diplomacy. “Coffee?”

“God, yes. Please”

He waves to someone outside. A moment later, a young female officer slips in and hands Erica a steaming mug. The smell alone is a lifeline.

Willard leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “While you were resting, Detective Flaherty was busy. Here’s what we have: your attacker’s prints are on the coke and the knife. His Camaro’s parked outside your house. Your neighbor places him at the scene. And you? Not even a parking violation to your name.”

He pauses, letting it sink in.
“You’re a piece of work, Ms. Sinclair. Flaherty couldn’t dig up a single blemish on you.”

A faint, almost involuntary flicker of pride crosses Erica’s face before she suppresses it.
“I’m sorry,” she says over the rim of her mug sounding almost apologetic.

Willard chuckles. “Your assailant’s name is Julio Ramos. We’ve had eyes on him for a while, but we’ve never caught him dirty. First thing he did after surgery? Asking for a lawyer.”

Erica takes another sip, letting the warmth of the strong, black coffee fill her.
Then: “Please tell Mr. Ramos that I’m not available.”

Willard grins, genuinely this time. “I’ll be sure to pass that along. It would be nice to know how he got the splendid idea to use your house to stash his drugs, especially since we’ve been trying to pin him for a while.”

"Are you asking my amateurish opinion, Captain?" Erica says after taking another sip.

Willard nods. "From what Flaherty found out about you, Ms. Sinclair, your opinion will be anything but amateurish. So, please, go ahead."

Straightening herself, Erica pinches the bridge of her nose as she collects her thoughts. "I would not be surprised if Ramos found out about my aunt's mental condition by accident," she muses. "Let's say, at the convenience store where she buys her groceries. Following her home must have been easy for him."

"Interesting theory," Captain Willard agrees. "A variation of the grandparent scam. He'd sweet-talk her, tell her he's her long-lost nephew, but instead of asking Mrs. Teran for money, he asked her for the key to the house. Maybe brought her groceries now and then."

"My aunt kept mostly to herself, but if anyone asked - such as Mr. Ellis, the neighbor next door – she might even validate him as her nephew - if she remembered him coming and going. Nobody would think about it twice." The more Erica kicks this idea around in her mind, the more her anger rises. If this theory might turn out to be true… Ramos used Elisa like a piece of furniture, exploited a vulnerable dementia patient with his manipulations.
But then, this wouldn’t have happened if she had been there for her aunt.

Rubbing his chin, Willard summarizes "She would have been the perfect cover. And when he noticed you being around the house unexpectedly, he decided to remove his stash before you stumbled upon it by accident. You surprised him and – spur of the moment – he decided to kill you."

Erica lets Willard's words sink in.
Indeed, what he says makes chilling sense.
But what weighs even heavier than Ramos attacking her that night is the sickening thought that he might have turned against her aunt had she confronted him in one of her lucid moments.
The mere thought makes her heart sink, a cold, heavy stone in her chest.

She should have taken care of Elisa years ago, but she also knows that there's no use in crying over spilled milk.

~~~

[LunaDog]

She should have taken care of Elisa years ago, but she also knows that there's no use in crying over spilled milk.

Exactly. But can clearly see how Ramos thought he'd gained a perfect opportunity here. Little was he to know he'd 'licked a hornet's nest!'

[Caesar73]

It is perfectly plausible that Erica feels she let Elisa down.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, maybe we will find out what Ramos' deal was. It's safe to say that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time doing the wrong thing.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, let's hope that Erica still can make things right. Better late than never.

[Caesar73]

Dear @Caesar73, let's hope that Erica still can make things right. Better late than never.

Amen!

[LunaDog]

It's safe to say that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time doing the wrong thing.

Couldn't have put it better myself!

[Jenny_S]

“You’re free to go, Ms. Sinclair. It’s Sunday, by the way.”
Captain Willard’s voice is calm, but Erica hears the subtle edge of fatigue in it, the hours of paperwork and verification layered beneath his steady tone. “Lucy’s Diner serves a great breakfast.”

She offers a half-smile, more habit than expression. “Thank you, Captain. Detective Flaherty will have told you - Scarsdale is my hometown. I’ve known Lucy’s since I was… little.”
It’s the first time she’s said that word – hometown - out loud in years, and it lingers awkwardly in the air between them, like an old friend who left without saying goodbye.

Erica finishes the last sip of her coffee, lukewarm now, and shrugs into her torn jacket. The tear at her shoulder feels like a wound still too fresh to ignore, a physical reminder of the deeper cuts the night has left.

“We’ll be in touch,” Willard says.

She nods, doesn’t trust herself to say more.

At the front desk, she returns the empty mug to a young officer who barely glances at her and retrieves her handbag. She lingers near the door, waiting for someone to mention a ride home, but no offer comes forth.
She isn’t surprised.
Sympathy from law enforcement only goes so far, especially once the adrenaline wears off and the paperwork is filed.

Outside, the air is brisk, the sun of spring already clearing the rooftops and melting away the last traces of early morning mist.

Erica stands still for a moment on the sidewalk, the town around her unchanged and unfamiliar all at once.
The suggestion of breakfast echoes in her mind just as her stomach growls in agreement. She exhales, rubs her arms for warmth, and heads left.


~~~


The streets are quiet, the kind of Sunday quiet she remembers from childhood, a stillness that feels like a long-forgotten embrace, when everything moved slower and no one seemed in a hurry to go anywhere.
Storefronts are shuttered or just now lighting up - boutiques with tasteful mannequins, a florist with condensation on the inside of its windows, a bookstore she once haunted in high school.
And then, like a landmark still holding vigil, there’s Lucy’s.

Just like yesterday, when she’d come with Steve and Toni, the sign is the same: rusted neon, the ‘L’ still flickering like it can’t quite decide whether to hold on or give out.
Inside, it’s warm and welcoming in that specific diner way: linoleum floors, chrome stools, booths with cracked red vinyl, and the lingering scent of butter, syrup, and hash browns typical for an All-American morning.
Some things don’t change. Thank God, she thinks, with a profound, bone-deep gratitude.

“Hey hon,” says a voice as Erica slides into a booth by the window.
The waitress is maybe twenty-four, her hair tied up in a high ponytail with a scrunchie, but she’s pure sixties - a burst of cherry lipstick, bubblegum charm, and just enough sass to wrangle a Sunday crowd without breaking a sweat.
She pours Erica a steaming mug of coffee with practiced ease. “What’s it gonna be?”

Erica glances at the menu without really seeing it, her body still running on adrenaline and muscle memory. “Two eggs, fried both sides. Side of bacon. Oatmeal. Thanks.”

The waitress jots it down, already turning. “Coming right up, darlin’.”
There’s something grounding in the rhythm of it, in the way the word darlin’ rolls off the waitress’s tongue without pretense.
Erica lets out a small grin.
This girl is cool, she thinks.
Not New York City cool, not sleek-and-sardonic cool - small-town cool.
Really cool.

She tears open two pink Sweet’n Low packets, watches the powder dissolve in the dark swirl of her coffee.
Her hands have steadied.
The edge is still there - just dulled, like a blade she’s finally set down.
From her handbag, she retrieves a small silver tin, pops the lid, and takes one of the lactase tablets she always keeps for emergencies.
No almond milk here - just thick, real cream.
She stirs a splash into her cup and watches the color lighten.

Somewhere in the background, the old jukebox, now probably being fed music from a playlist, starts up, a classic tune humming low across the room and Erica recognizes it as “Chain of Fools” sung by Aretha Franklin.

She leans back against the booth, eyes half-lidded, breathing in the smells, the sounds, the slow unraveling of the last twelve hours. Her body’s sore, her jacket ruined, her mind still catching up to the chaos.

But she’s alive.
She’s here.
And for the first time since the night before, Erica Sinclair feels - however faintly - that she is still moving forward.

~~~

[LunaDog]

Bacon and eggs, what a great start, but what Erica needs here is a FULL ENGLISH BREAKFAST!

Now everybody, especially those who herald from Southern Europe, slates traditional English food as poor and bland, with some justification it must be admitted, but nobody, NOBODY, does breakfast as well as us Brits. Croissants or bacon? NO CONTEST!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I do love the full English breakfast. It surely tides you over if lunch isn't going to happen or if it is only a sandwich and a cuppa in the early afternoon.

[Caesar73]

NOBODY, does breakfast as well as us Brits. Croissants or bacon? NO CONTEST!

Agreed. But I could forego Blood Pudding

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, although it's Sunday, Erica has a lot on her plate. Not only at Lucy's Diner, but in other ways as well. Let's see what happens next.

[Jenny_S]

The taxi pulls away in a soft hiss of tires on asphalt, leaving Erica alone by the curb in front of the house - her house again - looming quiet and still. The morning sun casts long shadows over the steps, and despite the fatigue that aches deep in her bones, there’s work to be done.

She glances over to where the white Camaro had been parked. It's gone now - towed as part of the evidence sweep.
The sight of the empty space fills her with a grim kind of satisfaction.
Good. If the system does what it's supposed to – as it must - then Julio Ramos will be behind bars for a long time. Fifteen years, maybe more. Enough time for her to rebuild, to breathe again, and for this house to feel safe once more.

Erica circles around the side of the house and unlocks the garage. Her black Volvo - the hearse as Aunt Elisa had called it- waits patiently, dark and dependable. She slides behind the wheel, adjusts the seat belt without thinking, and starts the engine with a low rumble.
Destination: Sunrise Manor.


~~~


The drive to the edge of town is uneventful, but inside her mind, everything moves like a fast-forward reel. She rehearses what she needs to say, what boxes to tick, and what questions to ask, but as always, reality throws curveballs.

Sunrise Manor, the care facility her aunt had selected, is a low-slung, older building with big windows. Well-kept and everything seemed lived-in, not sterile and clinical. The residents looked happy and content, Erica thinks as she parks in the guest lot and walks briskly to the reception.

“I’m here to speak with someone from management,” she says.
The words feel awkward in her mouth, too formal, too adult.
A little sharp, a little imperious.
A little Karen even.

The receptionist, a polite woman with tight curls and kind eyes, hands her a thick packet of forms. “We just need a few details for your aunt’s file.” she says. “Shouldn’t take long.”

She tries to fill out the ten-page questionnaire to the best of her knowledge, but very quickly finds out that she has to pass on some of the desired information - some as complicated as Elisa Teran’s medication plan, some as simple as her date of birth…
“I don’t even know her birthday,” Erica chastises herself, the words a quiet, burning shame.
She leaves the blank spaces blank.

“I’ll return this when my aunt moves in,” she promises, tucking the questionnaire into her bag. “I need to confirm some details with her physician first.”

“Of course,” the woman nods. “If you sign here, we can finalize her room for this next Wednesday. Rent is due the first of every month.”

Erica scrawls her name at the bottom of the page.
“I’ll take care of that.”

“The first rent is due today - will that be by card?”

Without hesitation nor comment, Erica reaches into her handbag and pulls out her wallet. Nothing in this world is free.


~~~


Next stop: Greenleaf Hospital.
The smell hits her as soon as she walks through the doors - sterile and sharp, mixed with something sour that crawls up her nose and clings to her skin and clothes. She forces herself to breathe through her mouth, brisk in her steps, laser-focused.

Elisa sits on the edge of her bed, still as a porcelain doll left behind in an attic - fragile, forgotten, her gaze fixed on nothing at all. She stares blankly out the window into a sparse, over-trimmed garden, her expression unreadable.

“Aunt Elisa?” Erica’s voice is quiet as she steps in.

The older woman turns slightly. “What is it?”
That tone. Flat, clipped, familiar in a way that pricks Erica’s spine like tiny needles.
She doesn’t mean it, she reminds herself, biting back the instinct to flinch.
She’s not being intentionally cruel.
She’s just… gone, sometimes.

“It’s me - Erica. Luisa’s daughter. Do you recognize me?”

Elisa squints, shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know you.” she says. “What do you want?”

Erica’s throat tightens, but she keeps her tone level. Doctor Parker had told her that Elisa is slipping in and out of lucidity.
One moment she is in the here and now, the next… she isn’t.
“I’m taking you on a little trip, Aunt Elisa. I’d like you to meet someone.”

There’s no resistance, only passive compliance as she helps Elisa into a thick cardigan and hands her the handbag.
It’s like dressing a child.
A fragile one, not out of petulance but decay.

“It’s Sunday,” Erica adds, attempting cheer. “The sun’s out.”

She guides her aunt down the hallway, a firm but gentle hand on her elbow.
At the nurses’ station, she pauses.
“I’m taking Mrs. Teran out for a drive. And - she’ll be moving out on Wednesday. Please let Dr. Parker know.”

Elisa - Mrs. Teran - doesn’t respond to the news.


~~~

[Jenny_S]

The Volvo hums as it merges onto the Hutchinson Parkway, wind rifling through the slight crack in the window. Erica glances sideways, a silent plea in her gaze. Elisa stares ahead, unmoving.
“Shall I put some music on, Aunt Elisa?”

No answer.
Still, Erica reaches for the built-in computer, searching deliberately for a station with soft Sunday tunes - upbeat, nothing too loud. A piano riff trickles in, then a woman’s voice - melodic, bright, but gentle.

A minute passes.
Then another.
And then… tap.
A subtle, slow movement from the passenger seat.
Elisa’s foot begins tapping along to the rhythm.
Erica smiles to herself, eyes flicking back to the road. It’s not much, but it’s something.
Her father used to say that a little something is better than a big nothing.
Maybe this is going to be the motto when dealing with her aunt’s dementia.

They swing onto I-684 North, past the quiet sprawl of Westchester Airport and toward Bedford.
Trees blur by, April green and hopeful.
The road narrows into winding curves and gravel lanes as they near their destination: Ironwood Pastures.


~~~


She eases the Volvo slowly down the gravel driveway, the tires crunching steadily beneath them.
The stables come into view - wooden fencing, red barns, horses flicking their tails in the distance.
Erica parks close to the stable yard and steps out, circling around to Elisa’s side.
She opens the door gently and helps her aunt unbuckle.

From the far end of the yard, a tall young woman in riding boots and a fleece vest waves cheerfully.
“Hi, Ms. Sinclair!”

Kelly Garner, stablemistress, already walks toward them, ponytail bouncing.
She slows as she notices the older woman at Erica’s side, and softens her smile with something more tentative, respectful, her kindness radiating.
Erica steadies her aunt with one hand and waves with the other.

“My aunt, Mrs. Teran,” Erica says, her voice measured, respectful as she introduces Elisa to Kelly.

Kelly slips off her work gloves and offers her hand with a wide, genuine smile. “How do you do, Mrs. Teran? It’s so nice to meet you.”

Elisa doesn’t shake the hand right away.
She looks around first - chin tilted slightly up, as if trying to orient herself with more than just her eyes.
She sniffs, and for a beat, something flickers across her face.
Something wordless.
It might be memory.
Might be longing.
Might be both.

There’s a stillness around her that reminds Erica of those first few seconds before a summer storm - the charged silence before the downpour.
Then: “Where are the horses?” Elisa asks.
Her voice is dry, but there’s a note in it that wasn't there at the hospital.
Curiosity.
A spark.

“I’ll get Lea for you,” Kelly says with a wink, jogging toward the stable entrance.

Matching her pace, Erica guides Elisa with a steady hand on her arm.
The gravel crunches under their shoes, uneven in places.
Erica keeps glancing down, making sure her aunt doesn’t stumble.
Her grip is gentle, but unrelenting. Her aunt’s bones feel like glass beneath her worn cardigan.

They reach the stable door.
In the filtered light of the aisle, Kelly stands waiting, one hand holding the lead rope of a tall, muscular brown mare.
Lea.
The horse lifts her head the moment she spots Erica, ears flicking forward, then back again in a smooth, elegant motion.
She chortles softly, a low, rumbling purr of a whinny, and steps forward with a confidence only animals seem to own without arrogance.

“Her name is Lea,” Erica says, smiling, warmth seeping through the fatigue she’s been carrying since yesterday.
She runs her hand along Lea’s neck, feels the solid muscle beneath the coat, the silk of her mane.
“She’s a Cleveland Bay. English breed. Strong, calm. Reliable.” The words feel like an anchor.

Lea nudges Erica’s side with her velvety nose, then lowers her head, almost as if in greeting.

Tentatively, Elisa reaches out.
Her hand hovers, uncertain, then rests against Lea’s jaw.
The mare doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t blink.
Just leans in, her eyes soft.
“She is pretty,” Elisa says after a moment, her voice a touch steadier.
Her fingers weave through the horse’s black mane.
There’s reverence in her touch.
Like she’s petting something holy.

Erica leans toward Kelly, her voice low. “My aunt tends to forget things. But she liked my kitten videos. I thought maybe…” she shrugs “…a different environment might reach her in another way.”

“Seems like it does,” Kelly whispers back, eyes on Elisa.

"I can hear you,” Elisa cuts in, voice sharp like broken glass. “I’m not deaf.”
Both women flinch slightly.
Then Erica exhales, lips twitching, a strange flicker of relief mixed with surprise.
That tone - that whipcrack - is how she remembers Elisa could sound.


~~~

[Jenny_S]

Later, they walk a short stretch of the riding trail that borders the open paddock.
The sun is high now, casting honey-gold light across the tall grasses.
Birds skitter in and out of hedgerows.
Somewhere, a horse nickers, low and content.

Erica walks slow, letting Elisa set the pace.
When they reach the old split-rail fence she has jumped with Lea countless times, she stops and leans against it, hands gripping the wood.

“In three days, you’ll move to your new home,” she says, her voice quiet. “I’ve taken care of everything. They’re excited to have you at Sunrise Manor.”

Elisa doesn’t respond.
Her eyes scan the paddock like she’s reading something in the trees.

“Your room is lovely,” Erica adds. “Vanilla yellow and orange on the walls. And you’ll be able to see the garden from your window.”

A pause.
“Will you be there too?” Elisa asks, still looking into the distance.

Erica’s heart folds in on itself.
“Not all the time, Aunt Elisa. My apartment is in the city. New York. But I’m having the house fixed. The one on Taunton Road. I’ll be moving back as soon as I can. I’m coming home.”

There’s a silence that stretches between them like thread on a loom, thin and shimmering.
“It’s good to be home,” Elisa says. “I haven’t been home in ages.”

The words hit harder than Erica expects.
Because the woman beside her isn’t the stiff portrait her memories always held - she’s not just sharp lines and hard eyes.
Not anymore.
She isn’t the scolding voice, or the judgmental eyes, not even the victim Erica tried to rescue.
She’s… lost.
Unmoored.
A woman who had a life, a country, a family - and lost it all to something so sudden, so brutal, there was never time to grieve, never space to rebuild.

“I know,” Erica whispers. “I wish I could change that.”
And for the first time that day, her aunt’s hand reaches out - not for a horse, not for balance - but for hers.

~~~

[Jenny_S]

The sun is lowering behind the trees when Erica pulls off the highway and into the lot of a squat, timeworn roadside restaurant advertising “home-cooked meals just like grandma made.”
The red-and-white sign creaks in the wind, its letters sun-faded but still proud, like an old soldier standing guard.

She kills the engine and glances at her aunt.
“Feel like stopping here for a bite?” she asks.

Elisa doesn’t respond right away.
She just stares through the windshield, as if trying to read the place’s history in the chipped paint and scuffed windows.
Then, with a small nod, she unbuckles her seatbelt.

Inside, the place smells of grilled onions and coffee grounds.
A floor fan hums from the corner, doing a poor job of chasing off the warmth lingering in the vinyl booths.
The afternoon light, mellow and dusty, filters through the window.
Erica chooses a niche table by the window, one of those sun-bleached seats worn soft with decades of elbows and whispered conversations.

Elisa sits with both hands resting on the table, the laminated menu untouched in front of her. She looks down at it but doesn’t flip it open.
Just stares at the faded picture of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

“Aren’t you hungry, Aunt Elisa?” Erica asks, watching her from across the table. “You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Elisa tilts her head. “Do you think they have rice and beans?”

Erica blinks.
The question comes out of nowhere - but then again, not really.
It’s not hunger talking.
It’s memory, curled up like a cat in her chest - warm, insistent, unmistakable.

“I’m sure they do,” she replies with a smile, flagging down the waitress, who looks like she’s been slinging hash here since the Nixon administration.
“Could we please have rice and beans?” Erica says, careful with her words. “With steamed fish, some gravy, and… tapioca pudding for dessert, if you have it.”

The waitress cocks her head and grins. “Well now, that’s a first in ages. But I reckon the cook’ll love the change of pace. I’ll see what we can do.”
She disappears into the kitchen with a wink and a wave of her pad.

The wait feels longer than twenty minutes, but when she returns, the food arrives like an answered prayer.
No garnish.
No pretense.
Just two plates of soft fish nestled beside mounds of beans and fluffy rice, steam curling up in gentle spirals.
It smells warm.
Plain.
Like something you’d eat on a porch in the evening while cicadas drone.

Elisa doesn’t hesitate.
She picks up her spoon and digs in, eating slowly but deliberately, smacking her lips between bites with quiet satisfaction.
“This is so good,” she says.

Erica watches her for a moment, then starts eating as well.
The food is… alright.
No fireworks.
Just salt, starch, and warmth.
She catches the waitress’ subtle grin as she wipes a nearby table.
“Doesn’t matter,” Erica thinks, biting down on a slightly overcooked piece of fish. “She likes it. That’s what counts.”

Still, her mind drifts to Sunrise Manor, to their weekly menu of casseroles, steamed greens, sugar-free desserts.
She might have to talk to the kitchen - see if they can make room for a Bolivian plate or two.
It’s a small thing.
But small things can be anchors - quiet, stubborn ties to the world that used to be.

~~~

[LunaDog]

No, @Jenny_S I've not been ignoring you or this magnificent tale, my P.C. broke and i've not been to log on here, or any other site come to think of it, for several days. But i see that you've carried on successfully without me. Well up to your usual superb standard!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I'm glad you're back. Sorry your computer broke, but I hope you can now enjoy what has happened in the Ericaverse while you were forced into absence.

[LunaDog]

I hope you can now enjoy what has happened in the Ericaverse while you were forced into absence.

Now, don't you go worrying yourself about that Jenny. I've thoroughly enjoyed 'catching up,' just as i KNEW i would!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, then let's crack on, right? Enjoy!

[Jenny_S]

Back at Greenleaf Hospital, Erica helps Aunt Elisa out of her grey cardigan, folding the soft wool carefully over one arm.
She hangs it in the narrow closet, the hangers clinking faintly.
Behind her, Elisa stands at the window, a wisp of a woman silhouetted against the rain-slicked glass.

Outside, spring weeps quietly. Rain glides down the windowpane in lazy streaks, blurring the hospital’s modest garden into a wash of green and grey.
The air in the room smells like fresh bleach and cheap carnations - a cloying mix.
Someone has left a vase of them on the sill, trying to summon spring into a place that often forgets what season it is.

Erica notices the small touch.
Someone cared - at least for a moment. It’s both comforting and deeply, deeply sad.
She clears her throat.
“Aunt Elisa… I need to head back to the city for a couple of days.”

Elisa turns slightly, blinking. “Oh?”

“I’ve got to get back to work,” Erica tries to make it sound casual, steady. “And the kittens... they’re probably turning my apartment into a battlefield.”
A flicker of a smile pulls at Elisa’s mouth, faint as the rain, but it fades before it can settle.
Erica remembers how Elisa used to enjoy those kitten videos, captivated, as if memorizing every movement.

“I’ll be back Wednesday,” Erica adds quickly. “Promise. I’ll help you move to Sunrise Manor. We’ll take it slow. One box at a time.”

Elisa nods, her fingers worrying the edge of her pullover.
She doesn’t say thank you.
Doesn’t ask her to stay.
Just studies Erica, quiet and watchful, a look that feels both searching and deeply familiar, as if committing her to memory.

Erica glances at her Rolex - guilt climbing behind her ribs like ivy, a cold, creeping vine.
She steps forward. “I should…” she begins.
But the words falter.
Instead, she opens her arms.
Not wide.
Not confident.
Just enough.

A gentle invitation.
She doesn’t usually hug people, and the gesture feels foreign on her own body.
But this feels necessary.
And it feels right.

For a moment, Elisa hesitates, gaze flicking across Erica’s face as if searching for hidden conditions.
Doubt hovers thick between them.
Then, slowly, Elisa leans in.
Her arms rise, tentative at first, then steadier.
Erica closes her eyes.

The embrace is soft, fragile. Erica can feel every brittle bone in her aunt’s body.
She smells faintly of powder and something floral - maybe the fragrance she uses.

Erica didn’t realize how much she needed this.
The quiet, anchoring warmth of someone who remembers her as more than a name on her firm’s letterhead.

They part without a word.
Elisa smooths her hair and looks away, blinking fast.
Erica walks to the door, her footsteps swallowed by the hospital’s mechanical hum.
When she turns back for a final glance, Elisa is still watching her - a small, lonely figure - one hand lifted in a quiet, deliberate wave.
Erica lifts her hand in return, then walks away.

~~~

[LunaDog]

Between them they seem to have made their peace. Where there's a will, there's a way, it appears.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I guess, they are beginning to understand that they need each other.

[Jenny_S]

The elevator door sighs closed behind Erica as she walks into the familiar hush of Sinclair & Associates the next morning.
Her heels click softly on the polished floor as she walks past the front desk, nodding to Holly, the familiar motions a thin shield.
Then she heads straight toward her personal office.

Claire is already at her desk, sorting through a thick stack of deposition notes. She looks up and breaks into a smile.
“Good morning, Erica. It’s so good to see you.”

Exhaling a quiet laugh, Erica gives her assistant a tired smile.
Although she got back to her apartment the evening before, played with the kittens and slept dreamlessly, she feels anything but relaxed and recovered.
The stress of the past few days weighs on her, a sudden, crushing burden.
“Thanks again for watching the terror twins, Claire,” she says in an effort to muster a joke. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Claire looks at her boss. “Don’t mention it. You’d do the same for me, right?”

Erica adjusts the strap of her bag on her shoulder and leans on the edge of the desk. “I’ll be out again on Wednesday. I’m taking my aunt to Sunrise Manor.”

“How’s she doing?” Claire asks, tilting her head slightly.

Motioning at her office door, Erica says “Do you want to sit down for a minute?”

“I’ll bring some coffee.”

Erica nods and steps into her office.
As always, her mahogany desk is polished, all documents are neatly stacked in order of priority.
She drops her bag, shrugs out of her taupe trench coat and hangs it up on the hook beside the bookcase.

Her gaze falls upon the skyline, the high-rises on Park Avenue and looking down, there’s the usual morning traffic with the Avenue’s characteristic green median dividing the lanes.
Erica hesitates.
She’s been running on adrenaline for the past thirty-six hours, and now that she’s here, surrounded by order and normalcy, the crash hits her all at once.
Her limbs feel heavy, her thoughts slow.
The copier hums in the hallway, someone laughs in the break room. Everything here is bright, organized - normal.
Somehow, Erica feels like a smudge in the middle of it.

It took her a lot of hard work to get Sinclair Law on the map and after she had made a name for herself, taking two associates on board and turning the one woman-show into Sinclair & Associates had been the next logical step.
Now, as managing partner with her name in big letters on the stationary, things haven’t exactly become easier, but if anything, she has gained confidence.
And that has to count for something.

However, all her confidence does not keep her from doubting herself when dealing with Aunt Elisa.

Claire steps in, carrying two mugs of steaming coffee.
“There you are,” she says cheerfully as she sets one mug down on Erica’s desk.
Based on her invitation to sit, Claire lowers herself gracefully into one of the visitor chairs in front of the desk while Erica smooths her fitted pencil skirt and sits in her high-backed chair.

“Thanks again for helping me out, Claire. With everything,” she says. “Things around my aunt have been more complicated than I thought.”

“But you are pulling through,” Claire smiles confidently. “You always do.”

“Your confidence in me is uplifting.” Erica takes a sip of coffee – two Sweet’n Low and a splash of almond milk. “Makes me feel like Wonder Woman.”

A breath.

“So, I have arranged for my aunt to move to Sunrise Manor. She chose it, and I think she’s going to be in good hands there.” Erica leans back and takes another sip.

“That’s good. Makes things a lot easier for you.”

Erica nods. “Still…” she pauses. “I have decided to have the house in Scarsdale renovated and to relocate… eventually.”

Claire looks at her, eyebrows raised. What Erica has just let her in on could have serious implications.

“The commute shouldn’t be too bad,” she says. “I might have to leave a little earlier to be ahead of the heavy traffic, but… I’ll manage.”

Exhaling quietly, Claire tries to mask her relief. So her boss is going to stay her boss.
“If you need me, Erica,” she says “I’ll still be available to look after the kittens.”

“Thank you, Claire,” Erica says. This confirmation relieves her of a heavy load. “Do you remember my neighbor, Mr Ellis, talking about that alleged brother of mine who visited my aunt at the house now and then?”

“I do.” A pause. “I tried to stay out of your conversation, but it was hard to overhear it. Your neighbor has a certain presence…”

“I met my “brother” late on Saturday,” Erica says, her hands curling around her coffee mug, her eyes staring out of the windows. “I was at the house and had fallen asleep when I heard noises from the basement. He was stashing drugs.”

Claire’s eyes widen. “He was doing what?”

Erica nods, jaw tight. “I don’t know what came over me,” she whispers. “Maybe I should have let him do what he came to do and leave… but… I confronted him. He pulled a knife. I had to shoot him.”

Claire’s face goes slack with shock. “Oh my God. Erica… did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” Erica says quickly, too quickly. “It was self-defense. The police said the same. Actually, I’m waiting for the DA to tell me that they are dropping the charges.”

Claire leans forward, reaches out for Erica’s hand, her voice softer now. “Are you okay?”

A long beat.

Erica nods, her fingers tightening around the mug as if wanting to crush it.
She doesn’t feel like Wonder Woman at all.
Her eyes don’t quite meet Claire’s.

~~~

[LunaDog]

Back to earth, with a bump?