Page 118 of Rescuing Aria
Not friends.
Marcus Holbrook didn’t have friends, only assets and liabilities.
Who standing here is a part of his crimes? Part of the dirty underbelly of my father’s work?
The minister speaks of a man I thought I knew—devoted father, community leader, philanthropist. Each platitude scrapes against the raw truth I now carry. The Marcus being eulogized never existed. He was a carefully constructed fiction, a mask worn over the face of a monster.
I keep my expression neutral; years of social training have served me well. Inside, questions circle like vultures. Did any of them know? The board members, the politicians, the socialites? Did they glimpse behind the mask, or were they as deceived as I was?
“And now, Marcus’s daughter would like to say a few words.”
The minister’s voice penetrates my thoughts, calling me forward. This part wasn’t in the program. I didn’t prepare remarks. Didn’t plan to speak.
But Jon’s hand presses gently against my back, reassuring. I move to the podium on autopilot, social training once again carrying me through.
The crowd blurs before me, faces indistinct behind designer sunglasses and carefully managed expressions of grief. What do I say about a father who wasn’t who I thought he was? About a man whose love came wrapped in control, whose protection was just another form of possession?
“My father…” I begin, voice carrying clearly across the gathering. “My father believed in legacies.”
The words come from some place beyond conscious thought, truth shaping itself into language that won’t shatter the delicate social contract of this moment.
“He taught me that what we leave behind matters more than what we take with us. That the world remembers how we shaped it, for better or worse.”
Heads nod. The sentiment is appropriately vague, suitable for engraving on expensive stone.
“I stand here today not just as Marcus Holbrook’s daughter, but as someone shaped by his vision, his determination, his unflinching pursuit of what he believed was right.”
No lies, just carefully selected truths. Marcus did shape me. Did pursue what he believed was right. That his vision was corrupted, his determination monstrous, his pursuit stained with blood—these are details I keep to myself.
“The legacy he leaves is complex.” My gaze sweeps across the crowd, noting which eyes slide away from mine. “As all legacies are. As all lives are.”
A murmur ripples through the gathering. This deviates from the expected platitudes. Good. Let them wonder. Let them question what I know, what I might say next.
“I will carry forward what serves life, what builds rather than destroys, what illuminates rather than obscures.” My voicestrengthens with each word, conviction replacing performance. “That is how I choose to honor not just his memory, but my path forward.”
I step back from the podium, the brief eulogy complete. Not what they expected, perhaps, but nothing they can quote as scandalous in tomorrow’s papers. A eulogy worthy of Marcus’s daughter—poised, controlled, revealing exactly what I choose to reveal and nothing more.
The service continues. Prayers are said. The casket begins its mechanical descent into the ground. I take the white rose offered by the funeral director, its petals perfect and unblemished.
Another illusion of purity.
As the casket disappears from view, I drop the rose, watching it land with quiet finality. Whatever Marcus was to me—father, monster, teacher, jailer—that chapter ends today. What I carry forward will be my choice, not his legacy.
Jon’s hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with quiet strength. We stand together as the crowd begins to disperse, mourners moving toward waiting cars with a solemnity befitting the occasion.
“Ms. Holbrook.” A man approaches, hand extended. I recognize him vaguely—one of Marcus’s board members. “Beautiful words. Your father would have been proud.”
The platitude scrapes against raw nerves. Marcus would have been proud of the performance, the control, and the careful management of public perception. He would have been proud that I learned his lessons well enough to hide the ugliest truths even as I acknowledge them.
“Thank you.” I accept his hand briefly, posture perfect, smile measured. The politician’s daughter, the banker’s heir, the role I’ve played my entire life.
More people approach. More condolences are offered. Connections are reaffirmed. Business cards are discreetlyexchanged. Even at a funeral, networking never stops. Marcus taught me that too.
Only, I have the might of Guardian HRS behind me. We’re cataloging everything. Tracing everything. No stone unturned. We will bring down what my father created.
The evil. The lies. The suffering. The victims. I intend to raze it to the ground, one smile, one handshake at a time.
Throughout it all, Jon remains beside me, a physical anchor in the sea of social performance. His hand at the small of my back, occasional whispers asking if I need a break, water, or escape.
