The Ambulance

Eleanor lies on the marble floor, a collapsed statue of a fallen queen. The white lilies surrounding her look like a shroud. I watch her through the tinted glass of the media booth, my hand resting on the console, my voice perfectly modulated as I speak into the dispatcher’s headset.

"Yes, Grand Plaza Hotel, the main ballroom. It’s Eleanor Vance," I tell the 911 operator. "She’s having a severe panic attack. She’s hyperventilating and incoherent. She’s claiming people are trying to steal her thoughts."

I hang up before the operator can ask for my name. The administrative mask is absolute. I’ve spent a decade coordinating this woman’s life, and I am merely coordinating its end.

I leave the media booth and descend the stairs, my heels clicking a steady, deliberate rhythm against the metal steps. The ballroom is a vacuum of sound. The technicians and florists have backed away into the shadows of the mezzanine, too terrified of the digital evidence on the screen to touch the woman dying on the floor.

I reach Eleanor. I drop to my knees beside her, but I don’t check her pulse. I look at her face—the right side is slack, the eye fixed and staring at the ceiling. She’s still conscious, still aware of the ruin I’ve made of her life. She tries to speak, but only a thin, bloody froth escapes her lips.

I reach into my clipboard and pull out the resignation documents I pre-loaded into her legal portal. I also pull out the physical copies, the paper crisp and white against the dark marble.

"The ambulance is four minutes away, Eleanor," I say, my voice a soft, lethal whisper that only she can hear. "I told them you’ve had a psychological break. By the time you can speak again, Caleb will be free, and I will be the sole signatory of the Vance Trust."

She lets out a low, guttural moan, her left hand clawing at the floor, searching for the phone that no longer recognizes her thumbprint.

"You think Caleb can survive without you?" I ask, leaning closer until I can smell the iron of her blood. "He already has. He survived a fire you set. He survived twenty-five years of your poison. Now, he’s going to survive your absence."

I pick up her limp left hand. The fingers are cold, beginning to curl. I press a heavy silver pen into her palm and guide her trembling hand toward the signature line of the resignation form.

"Sign them," Clara whispered, "or I'll let the EMTs step over your corpse."