Dinner with Corinne

The gun was small, a snub-nosed revolver that looked almost delicate in Arthur’s large hand. But the bore was black and empty, and it was pointed at my chest.

"You really should have taken the sabbatical, Elena," he said. His voice was conversational, as if we were discussing the merits of a new zoning ordinance. "It would have been much cleaner."

"You faked her death," I said. My voice shook, but I forced the words out. "You buried an empty box. You bought a fake cremation certificate from an organ trafficker in New Jersey."

Arthur sighed. He walked into the room, the silk of his robe rustling softly. He set the brandy snifter down on the desk, next to the open safe.

"I didn't fake her death," he said. "I redefined her existence. Margaret was... unwell. The dementia was early onset, but aggressive. She was becoming a liability. To the company. To the family name."

"So you locked her up?" I asked. "In a facility funded by money you embezzled? Money you made *me* steal?"

"I protected her," he corrected. "Sunnyvale is the best facility on the East Coast. She has everything she needs. Care. Quiet. Dignity."

"Dignity?" I laughed, a sharp, jagged sound. "She’s in a cage, Arthur. I saw the bars."

His eyes narrowed. "You went there."

"I saw her," I said. "I saw her brushing her hair in the window. She’s alive. And you’re going to jail."

"No," he said. "I'm not."

He raised the gun slightly.

"Because you're the one who signed the checks, Elena. You're the one with the offshore accounts. You're the one who has been siphoning millions from the company for a decade."

"That’s a lie," I said. "I have the logs. I have the metadata."

"Metadata can be edited," he said. "Logs can be forged. But a confession? A suicide note apologizing for the theft?"

He gestured to the desk with the gun barrel. "Sit down. Write it."

I stared at him. "You're going to kill me."

"I'm going to solve a problem," he said. "Just like I solved Margaret. Just like I solve everything."

My mind raced. I was alone in the house with him. Julian was at our house, miles away, probably asleep. The staff were in the carriage house. No one would hear the shot.

But Arthur was seventy years old. He was arrogant. And he was holding a glass of brandy in his left hand.

"Corinne knows," I said.

It was a bluff. A desperate, wild bluff.

Arthur paused. "Corinne knows what?"

"She knows about the prenup," I said. "I found it in the basement. Margaret brought the money. You brought the debt. If Margaret is alive, your marriage to Corinne is void. She gets nothing."

Arthur’s face tightened. "Corinne is loyal."

"Corinne is greedy," I said. "I texted her. Before I came here. I told her everything."

I hadn't. I hadn't told anyone but the empty car.

But Arthur didn't know that.

"She's on her way," I lied. "She wants to talk about her settlement."

For the first time, the gun wavered. Just a fraction of an inch.

"You're lying," he said. But his eyes darted to the window.

I took a step back. "She has the Emerald Ring, Arthur. The one you gave her. The one that was supposed to be buried with Margaret."

"It's a replica," he snapped.

"Is it?" I asked. "Because I saw the chip in the stone. The one Margaret made when she hit her hand on the granite counter the day she got sick."

I looked him in the eye.

"I saw it at dinner tonight. It wasn't a replica. It was the real thing. Which means you stole it from your 'dead' wife to give to your mistress."

Arthur’s face went red. "She was dead to me!"

"But she wasn't dead to the law," I said. "And she wasn't dead to Corinne."

I took another step back. I was three feet from the door.

"Corinne is wearing a dead woman's jewelry," I said. "And when she finds out she's not actually your wife, but just the other woman in a bigamy case... do you think she'll stay loyal then?"

The sound of a car engine cut through the silence outside. Tires on gravel.

Arthur flinched. He looked toward the front of the house.

It wasn't Corinne. It was probably just security patrol.

But in that split second of distraction, I moved.

I threw the stack of files at him. The heavy leather binders hit his arm, knocking the gun sideways.

The gun went off.

The sound was deafening in the small room. The bullet shattered the glass of the display case behind me.

I ran.

I didn't look back. I sprinted down the hall, my socks sliding on the concrete. I hit the side door and burst out into the night.

I ran to the Porsche. My hands were shaking so hard I dropped the keys.

I scrambled in the dirt, found them, shoved the key into the ignition.

The engine roared to life.

I tore out of the driveway just as the front lights of the house flooded the lawn.

I drove fast. Reckless. I didn't care about the speed cameras. I didn't care about the noise.

I had the proof. I had the leverage.

And I knew exactly who I needed to call.

Not the police. Not Julian.

I needed the woman who was wearing the stolen ring.