Page 17 of Awaited Love with You
The door slams shut, but it’s her words that linger—unyielding, sharp, and impossible to forget.
I can’t tell her about her family… because I still haven’t accepted it myself.
End of Episode 7
What Could’ve Been
EPISODE 8
Ryder
Several Years Ago
The Night I Lost My Family…
The second kitchen sits at the lowest level of the estate—cold-tiled, underlit, and quieter than the main one upstairs. It’s where late-night snacks turn into strategy meetings, where pasta shells stack high and secrets settle deeper.
My entire family is sitting around a dinner table while my mom walks around serving her signature pasta. My father is laughing with my two older brothers, playfully admonishing them for “being on time instead of early. You know how I feel about time, boys.”
“You’re lucky you’re the youngest, Ryder.” He points a fork at me. “By the time you’re old enough to handle the business, I’ll be too tired to stay on your ass all the time.”
Everyone laughs, and my aunt squeezes my shoulder, lowering her voice. “Don’t bet on that.”
“I’m not, Aunt Hilda.”
“Ryder, can you grab some more parmesan shells from the kitchen for me?” my mom calls out. “Get me at least twenty.”
“Yes, Mama.” I slide out of my chair and rush into the prep kitchen, pushing aside trays in search of the shells near the wine rack.
Finding them, I start to stack and then?—
Bang! Boom! Bang! Boom!
The sound of gunshots roars through the air in quick succession. Plates and glasses shatter to the floor. Screams follow—ragged, unfiltered screams that don’t sound real until they suddenly do.
My ears ring from the first blast. My feet don’t move fast enough. I can’t even think, just react.
Panicking, I place the tray on the counter and rush behind the wine rack where the hidden panel is. I shove it open and slip inside the estate’s small safe room, pushing the hatch closed behind me just as heavy boots hit the tile.
The gunshots keep coming in a violent rhythm, almost like a symphony. I press both hands over my mouth to keep myself from making a sound.
“One of you check the kitchen,” a deep voice says. “The rest of you spread out and check every room. I don’t want to leave any roots of the Rochester tree alive.”
I still as best I can, unable to stop the tears falling down my face.
Footsteps enter the kitchen. They draw closer. I hear someone shift trays, move containers.
“Parmesan shells,” one of them says. “I heard Mama Rochester made the best filling for these.”
“Well, maybe you should’ve asked her to make you one before blowing off her head,” another man replies, laughing.
“Good point. I’ll go check the outside.”
“No, stay here. Check the bodies. Make sure they’re dead.”
“Will do, Boss.”
I don’t know how long I stay frozen in the safe room, but I know the killers don’t leave my family’s estate for at least four days. They take advantage of the pool and the spa, of the theater room and the gardens. They convene in the kitchen every afternoon, checking in on their “work,” joking that they’ll need to leave sooner or later before the bodies begin to smell.
