The Divorce Papers

We hit the highway, the taxi driver weaving through the afternoon traffic like a man possessed. I watched the city blur past, a landscape of concrete and glass that felt utterly alien after the gothic horror of the estate.

"The airport," I said again, my voice tight. "Private terminal."

Maya was quiet, her hand still clutching the foil blanket like a talisman. She wasn't crying anymore. She was watching me, her eyes tracking every shift in my expression, every nervous glance at the rearview mirror.

"Mom," she said. "What are we going to do?"

"We're going to stop him," I said. "And then we're going to leave."

"Leave where?"

"Anywhere," I said. "Everywhere."

The taxi screeched to a halt at the security gate of the private airfield. I threw a wad of cash at the driver—Julian's cash—and we scrambled out.

The gate was closed, a security guard in a booth watching us suspiciously.

"I need to get through," I said, marching up to the window. "My husband is on a flight. He forgot his... medication."

The guard looked at my soot-stained clothes, my wild hair. "Ma'am, I can't let you in without authorization."

"Call the tower," I said. "Tell them Helen Vance is here. Tell them I have the key."

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the phone.

I didn't wait. I saw a gap in the fence, where construction vehicles had been entering.

"Run," I told Maya.

We sprinted through the gap, ignoring the guard's shouts. We ran across the tarmac, dodging a fuel truck.

Ahead, on the runway, a sleek white jet was idling. Its engines whined, a high-pitched scream that cut through the air. The stairs were still down.

And walking toward them, carrying a single leather bag, was Richard.

He wasn't running. He was strolling. Confident. Arrogant.

"Richard!" I screamed.

He stopped. He turned. He saw us.

He didn't look surprised. He looked annoyed.

He waved at the pilot in the cockpit. A signal to wait.

Then he walked back toward us, meeting us halfway across the tarmac. The wind whipped his coat around his legs.

"You're persistent, Helen," he shouted over the engines. "I'll give you that."

"It's over, Richard," I said, stopping ten feet from him. "The police are coming. Arthur told them everything."

"Arthur is dead," Richard said. "Or he will be soon. And dead men don't testify."

"I have the proof," I said. "I have the deed. I have the birth certificate."

"Paper," he scoffed. "Easily lost. Easily burned."

He held up the key.

"This is what matters. The money."

"You can't open the box without me," I said. "The bank knows. I told them."

"I don't need the bank," Richard said. "I have a drill. And I have a pilot who doesn't ask questions."

He looked at Maya.

"Hello, sweetheart. Ready to go on a trip with Daddy?"

Maya stepped back, hiding behind me.

"Leave her alone," I said.

"She's my daughter, Helen. She comes with me. She's my insurance policy."

He reached for her.

I stepped in front of him.

"You touch her," I said, "and I will kill you."

He laughed. "With what? Your bare hands?"

"With this."

I pulled a sheaf of papers from my pocket. Not the deed. Not the birth certificate.

The divorce papers.

I had printed them weeks ago, before the fire, before the chaos. I had carried them with me like a secret weapon.

I shoved them into his chest.

"Sign them," I said.

He looked at the papers. He looked at me.

"You're joking."

"Sign them," I said. "Give me full custody. Give me the estate. Give me everything. And I let you go."

"Let me go?" he sneered. "You're not in charge here, Helen. I have the gun. I have the plane."

"I called the police," I said. "They're two minutes out. You can hear the sirens if you listen."

He tilted his head.

Wail.

Faint, but growing louder.

"Sign it," I said. "And you leave. You take the cash in the box. You take the plane. But you leave us."

He looked at the gate. The guard was pointing. Flashing lights appeared in the distance.

He looked at the plane. The pilot was revving the engines, anxious.

He looked at the papers.

"You promise?" he asked. "You don't talk?"

"I don't talk," I said. "If you're gone."

He pulled a pen from his pocket. A gold fountain pen. Arthur's pen.

He scribbled his name on the paper.

*Richard Vance.*

He thrust the papers back at me.

"There," he said. "Happy?"

"Delighted," I said.

He turned and ran for the plane. He bounded up the stairs.

The door closed. The engines roared.

The plane began to taxi.

I watched it go.

"Mom?" Maya asked. "You let him go?"

"No," I said. "I let him leave."

I watched the plane pick up speed. It lifted off the ground, a white bird against the blue sky.

It climbed.

Higher. Higher.

And then, a puff of smoke.

From the left engine.

Then the right.

The plane shuddered. It banked sharply, losing altitude.

It wasn't a mechanical failure.

It was a remote command.

I pulled out the burner phone. The one I had taken from Simon. The one Richard thought was just a phone.

It was connected to the plane's flight computer. Simon had installed a kill switch. Just in case.

I looked at the screen.

*Override Engaged.*

The plane dipped below the tree line.

A moment later, a plume of black smoke rose into the air.

Silence.

I looked at Maya.

"He signed," I said, folding the papers.

I took her hand.

We turned and walked toward the arriving police cars.

I was a widow. I was a millionaire.

And I was free.