The Countdown

Sixty minutes. The heavy wax seal on the envelope felt like a ticking detonator against Eleanor’s palm. She sprinted across the darkened parking lot, the humid night air clinging to her skin, and threw her SUV into gear before her mind could catch up with the sheer recklessness of what she’d just done.

Arthur would be notified in exactly one hour. Sixty minutes to get home, bypass the vault, and scrape twenty years of criminal history before the man who owned the local police realized his anchor was cutting the line.

She tore through the quiet suburban streets, her eyes darting to the rearview mirror every thirty seconds. She expected to see the strobe of blue and red lights, or perhaps the steady, predatory headlights of Arthur’s town car. But the roads remained empty, a silent graveyard of manicured lawns.

She veered into her driveway, the gravel spraying against the garage door. She killed the engine and lunged for her briefcase, but a shadow on her front porch made her heart slam into her windpipe.

Harrison was sitting on her porch swing.

He was wearing a fresh linen shirt, looking relaxed and disturbingly wholesome in the glow of the amber porch light. He held a thin manila envelope in one hand and a half-empty bottle of expensive sparkling water in the other.

"You're late, El. I've been calling."

Eleanor shoved the security envelope deep into her inner coat pocket, her fingers trembling. "I was at the office, Harrison. It's quarter-end. What are you doing here?"

"I need my check." He stood up, the porch swing creaking a slow, mocking rhythm. "The Arizona facility sent a revised billing statement for the aftercare. Arthur said you were being... difficult about the authorization."

"I'm not being difficult. I'm being thorough." She stepped past him, her keys fumbling against the lock. She had to get inside. She had to get to the laptop in the study. The timer in her head was already down to fifty-two minutes.

"You're sweating," Harrison noted, his voice sliding into that smooth, concerned register that usually preceded a blow. He followed her into the foyer, his presence instantly shrinking the space. "Are you feeling okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"It's just the humidity." Eleanor headed straight for the kitchen, her mind racing. "I'll make some coffee. I just need to finish a few reconciliation rows in the study first."

"Don't worry about the rows. Just print the authorization." He leaned against the marble island, watching her every move.

"I have to verify the escrow routing first, Harrison. Estate law." She turned her back to him, filling the kettle with shaking hands. The study door was ten feet away. Her laptop was already booted, its screen glowing in the dark room beyond. "Go sit. I'll bring the coffee in."

She managed to slip into the study under the guise of grabbing a pen, her fingers flying across the keyboard to input the twelve-digit PIN Meredith had generated. *Authenticating...* The loading bar was agonizingly slow. Forty-eight minutes left.

She hurried back to the kitchen just as the kettle began to whistle. She poured two mugs, the steam rising into her face, masking the terror she was sure was written in her eyes. When she walked back into the living room, Harrison hadn't sat down. He was standing in the doorway of the study, his silhouette framed by the blue light of her monitors.

Harrison stirred his coffee, staring at the closed study door. 'You're sweating, El. What's on that computer you don't want me to see?'