The Plea

I didn't answer the text. I let the phone slide from my numb fingers into the mud. Richard—or whoever had his phone—could wait.

I turned back to the mill, the rain slicking my hair to my face. The police boat was gone, its lights a fading memory on the dark water. Julian and Sarah were gone. And Richard was probably halfway to the border, or at the bottom of a river himself.

But Arthur.

Arthur was still in the car.

I ran back to the BMW. The passenger door was open.

The seat was empty.

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Arthur?" I called out, my voice swallowed by the wind.

Nothing.

I checked the backseat. Empty.

I looked at the ground. There were drag marks in the mud. Two sets of footprints. One heavy, one light.

They led into the woods. Away from the river. Away from the mill.

Toward the old access road.

I followed them.

The path was narrow, choked with briars. I stumbled, thorns tearing at my jeans, but I didn't stop. I had the gun in my pocket, heavy and cold.

I came out into a clearing.

There was a truck parked there. An old Ford, engine idling.

And standing by the open tailgate was Richard.

He wasn't running. He wasn't hiding.

He was lifting Arthur into the truck bed.

"Richard!" I screamed.

He froze. He turned slowly, his face pale in the taillights.

"Helen," he said, his voice strangely calm. "You shouldn't be here."

"Where are you taking him?"

"Somewhere safe," he said. "Somewhere he can rest."

"He's sick, Richard! He needs a hospital!"

"He needs silence," Richard said. "He talks too much. You heard him. At the river."

I stared at him. "You're not taking him to a hospital."

"No."

"You're going to kill him."

Richard looked at his father, who was curled up on a tarp in the truck bed, shivering.

"He's already dead, Helen," Richard said softly. "The man he was... he died thirty years ago. This... this is just a shell. A liability."

He reached for the tailgate.

"Don't," I said, pulling the gun.

Richard stopped. He looked at the revolver.

"You won't shoot me," he said. "I'm your husband."

"You're a stranger," I said. "You've been a stranger for twenty years."

"I did it for us," he said, taking a step toward me. "Everything I did... the lies, the cover-ups... it was all for this family. To keep what we have."

"What do we have?" I asked, my voice breaking. "A burning house? A dead brother who isn't dead? A daughter who isn't ours?"

Richard flinched.

"You know," he whispered.

"I know everything."

"Then you know why I have to do this. Julian is gone. Sarah is gone. If Arthur disappears... the police have nothing. Just a fire. An accident."

"And me?" I asked. "What about me?"

"You're my wife," he said. "You'll stand by me. Like you always have."

He took another step.

"Give me the gun, Helen."

I looked at him. At the man I had married. The man I had raised a child with.

And I saw nothing. Just a hollow, desperate man who would burn the world to save his own skin.

"No," I said.

I fired.

The shot hit the dirt between his feet.

Richard jumped back, his hands up.

"Get in the truck," I ordered.

"Helen—"

"Get in the truck!" I screamed. "Drive away. Leave Arthur. Leave me. Just go."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

He got into the truck. He put it in gear.

And he drove away.

I watched the taillights disappear into the trees.

I was alone. With Arthur. In the rain.

I climbed into the truck bed. Arthur looked up at me, his eyes unfocused.

"Is it time?" he whispered.

"Time for what, Arthur?"

"To pay the bill," he said.

I took his hand. It was cold.

"Yes," I said. "It's time."

I looked at the phone in my pocket. The burner.

A new text message.

From *Unknown*.

*You made a mistake, Helen. You let the wrong one go.*

I looked at the empty road where Richard had gone.

And I realized.

Julian wasn't the only one who wanted the money.

Richard didn't leave because he was scared.

He left because he had a better offer.