Drifting

The barrel of the gun didn't look real. It looked like a toy, a prop from one of the twins’ action movies, absurdly out of place in Richard’s manicured, lemon-scented study. But the look in his eyes was very real. It wasn't anger. It was a terrifying, hollow panic.

"Put the bag down, Elena," he said. His voice was steady, but the gun trembled slightly.

"You paid him," I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears, detached and clinical. "Five hundred thousand dollars. You used our money to pay a lawyer to frame me for your crimes."

"It's not my crimes," Richard snapped, stepping into the room. "It's the company. The family. You don't understand how it works. You never did. You just pay the bills and ask questions that don't concern you."

"I am the CFO, Richard. Everything concerns me."

"You're a figurehead!" he shouted, the facade of the charming husband cracking to reveal the spoiled child beneath. "Mother put you there because she thought you were safe. Boring. Competent enough to keep the lights on, but too naive to look in the dark corners."

He gestured with the gun. "I need the ledger. Now."

"Or what?" I asked, backing up until my legs hit the heavy oak desk. "You'll shoot me? In your father's study? How will you explain that to the police? Another suicide attempt?"

"We'll say you were unstable," he said, his eyes flicking to the portrait of his father. "Distraught over the audit. The shame was too much."

He believed it. I could see it in his face. He had already written the narrative, just like he had written the divorce papers.

"You're pathetic," I whispered.

"I am a survivor," he countered. "Give. Me. The. Ledger."

I gripped the strap of my bag. The leather dug into my palm. I thought about the photo on my phone. It wasn't enough. I needed the physical book. I needed the ink and the paper.

"No," I said.

Richard’s finger tightened on the trigger. He took a step forward, invading my space, using his height to intimidate me, just like he had done a thousand times before without a weapon.

"Don't make me do this, El."

"You've already done it," I said.

My hand brushed against a heavy crystal decanter on the corner of the desk.

I didn't think. I moved.

I swung the decanter with all my strength. It connected with his wrist, the heavy crystal shattering on impact.

Richard screamed, dropping the gun. It hit the carpet with a dull thud.

I didn't go for the weapon. I ran.

I bolted past him, shoving him into the bookshelf. He clawed at my jacket, tearing the fabric, but I pulled free.

"Get back here!" he roared.

I sprinted into the hallway. The house was a cavern of shadows. I needed to get to the front door. I needed to get to my car.

I heard him scrambling behind me, his footsteps heavy and uneven. He was hurt, but he was furious.

I reached the top of the stairs. I took them two at a time, my hand sliding down the smooth banister. The foyer below was dark, the moonlight filtering through the transom window creating a cage of light on the marble floor.

I reached the bottom landing. My breath tore at my throat.

I lunged for the heavy front door, my fingers fumbling with the deadbolt.

It wouldn't turn.

It was double-locked. From the inside.

"Damn it," I hissed, twisting the metal.

"Going somewhere, dear?"

The voice was soft, dry, and came from the shadows of the living room archway.

I froze.

The click of a lamp switch echoed like a gunshot.

Light flooded the foyer.

Eleanor sat in her wheelchair, positioned perfectly to block the path to the kitchen exit. She was wearing a silk dressing gown, her silver hair brushed to a shine. Her lap was covered by a tartan blanket.

And resting on the blanket, steady and calm, was a phone.

She wasn't calling the police. She was recording.

"I wouldn't open that door if I were you," she said, her eyes glittering with malice. "The alarm is silent, but the private security patrol is quite... enthusiastic. They might mistake a fleeing thief for a threat."

"He tried to kill me," I said, pointing up the stairs. Richard appeared on the landing, clutching his wrist, his face pale and sweaty.

"Richard," Eleanor tutted, looking up at her son with disappointment. "Control yourself. We don't brawl like commoners."

She turned her gaze back to me. It settled on my bag.

"You have something of ours, Elena."

"It's evidence," I said.

"It's company property," she corrected. "Stolen by a disgruntled employee who was just served divorce papers."

She smiled, a thin, predatory expression.

"Put the bag on the floor," she said. "And perhaps we can discuss a severance package. Custody arrangements are... flexible, if you are cooperative."

She was dangling my children in front of me. She was using them as currency.

I looked at the door. I looked at Richard coming down the stairs. I looked at the frail old woman who held the entire family in a chokehold.

"No," I said.

I turned and ran. Not to the door. To the library.

"Stop her!" Eleanor snapped.

I burst into the library and slammed the double doors, engaging the lock just as Richard’s shoulder hit the wood.

I backed away. I was trapped. The windows were reinforced. There was no way out.

But there was a fireplace.

And in the grate, the embers of the evening fire were still glowing.

I opened my bag. I pulled out the ledger.

"Elena!" Richard shouted, pounding on the door. "Open this door!"

I looked at the book. It was my salvation. But if they took it, it was my coffin.

I held it over the coals.

The door splintered.

"Open it!"

I didn't burn it. I couldn't. It was the only proof I had.

I looked around the room frantically. My eyes landed on the antique globe in the corner. The one that was actually a hidden liquor cabinet.

I ran to it. I popped the lid. I shoved the ledger inside, burying it beneath bottles of scotch.

I closed it just as the library doors burst open.

Richard stumbled in. Eleanor rolled in behind him.

"Where is it?" Richard demanded, scanning the room.

I stood by the window, empty-handed. My bag lay on the floor, open and void.

"I burned it," I lied.

Richard rushed to the fireplace. He stirred the embers. Nothing.

"She's lying," Eleanor said. She rolled toward me, her eyes scanning the room, dissecting the space.

She stopped. Her gaze moved from me to the globe. Then back to me.

"Check the globe, Richard," she said softly.

My heart stopped.

Richard moved toward the cabinet.

"Don't," I said.

He opened it. He reached in.

He pulled out the black book.

"Got it," he said, grinning.

"Good," Eleanor said.

She looked at me, her face settling into a mask of absolute victory.

"Now," she said. "Call the police, Richard. Tell them we've caught the intruder."