The Table

"James?" Julian’s voice wavered, the name hanging in the air like smoke.

The man by the car laughed, a sound devoid of humor. He tilted his head, the brim of his hat shielding his eyes from the rain.

"You remember," the man said. "I'm touched."

I stared at him. James. The name was familiar, but distant. A ghost from the family albums. The cousin who moved away. The black sheep who wasn't invited to weddings.

But he wasn't a cousin.

"The third brother," I whispered.

James stepped away from the car, his movements fluid and dangerous. He looked like Richard, but harder. Sharper. Where Richard was soft edges and expensive suits, James was all angles and denim.

"Hello, Helen," he said, nodding to me. "Nice gun. Bit old-fashioned, but it gets the job done."

"What are you doing here?" Julian demanded, stepping in front of Sarah.

"Cleaning up," James said. "Dad always leaves a mess."

He looked at the boat, then at the duffel bag.

"Leaving so soon? The party is just getting started at the house. I hear it's quite the bonfire."

"Did you set it?" Sarah asked, her voice trembling.

"Fire is purifying," James said. "It erases mistakes. Like ledgers. And DNA tests."

He looked at me.

"And sisters-in-law who ask too many questions."

I raised the revolver, my hand shaking. "Stay back."

"Or what?" James asked. "You'll shoot me? Like you shot Simon? I heard about that on the scanner. Very impressive. Messy, but impressive."

"You were listening," I said. "You've been listening the whole time."

"Someone has to be the adult in the room," he said. "Richard is weak. Julian is reckless. And Dad..." He sighed. "Dad is just tired."

He reached into his coat.

I tightened my finger on the trigger.

But he didn't pull a gun. He pulled a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, the flame illuminating his face for a split second.

He looked like Arthur. Before the dementia. Before the guilt.

"I have a proposition," James said, exhaling a plume of smoke. "A family settlement."

"We're not interested," Julian snapped.

"You should be," James said. "Because the police are five minutes away. And Simon is singing like a canary in the back of an ambulance."

He pointed to the car.

"I have a plane waiting at the private airfield. Enough fuel to get to Belize. Enough cash to disappear. For real this time."

"And the catch?" Sarah asked.

"The catch," James said, looking at me, "is that Helen stays here. With the gun. And the ledger. And the confession."

My stomach dropped.

"You want to frame me," I said.

"Someone has to take the fall," James said, shrugging. "And you're the one with the motive. The jealous wife. The embezzlement scheme. It writes itself."

"I won't do it," I said.

"You don't have a choice," James said. "Because if you don't..."

He pulled a phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen.

A video started playing.

It was grainy, dark. But I recognized the location.

Maya's dorm room.

She wasn't there. But someone was. A man, standing by her bed, holding a knife.

"My associate is very patient," James said. "But he gets bored easily."

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"She's not at the dorm," I whispered. "She's safe."

"Is she?" James smiled. "Check the timestamp, Helen."

I squinted.

*Today. 3:45 AM.*

Ten minutes ago.

Maya hadn't gone back to school. But someone was waiting for her there.

"If I don't send a code in the next five minutes," James said, "she won't make it to graduation."

He looked at Julian.

"The plane leaves in twenty minutes. With or without you."

Julian looked at Sarah. Then at the boat. Then at me.

He picked up the duffel bag.

"I'm sorry, Helen," he said.

He walked toward James's car. Sarah followed him, not looking back.

They got in.

James threw his cigarette into the mud.

"Pleasure doing business," he said.

He got into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life.

I stood there, the rain soaking through my clothes, the gun heavy in my hand.

I watched them drive away.

Then my phone buzzed.

A text message.

From Richard.

*Come home. We need to talk.*

I looked at the text. Then I looked at the burner phone in my other pocket. The one I had used to call Richard.

The text wasn't on my main phone.

It was on the burner.

I stared at the screen.

Richard didn't have this number.

Only one person did.

The person who had sold it to me at the gas station three hours ago.

James.

He hadn't been tracking Maya.

He had been tracking *me*.

And the text wasn't from Richard.

It was from the man sitting in my kitchen, waiting for me to come home and take the blame.

"You're not a kid anymore, Richard," I whispered to the empty clearing. "You're an accomplice to murder."

And tonight, I was going to be the judge.