The Wine Cellar Excuse

The iron grate rattled as Julian pulled it aside.

"I can smell you, El," he whispered. "Your perfume. It smells like lilies. Like the funeral."

He shone the light into the hearth.

I pressed myself against the back of the firebox, the rough brick scraping my spine. My hand closed around a piece of cold kindling.

"Come out," he said. "Please."

He sounded so sad. So broken.

And I knew if I came out, he would kill me. Not because he wanted to, but because he was too weak to stop himself. He was a man who signed death warrants with tears in his eyes.

"Julian," I said. My voice was raspy from the smoke and fear.

He froze. "El?"

"I know about your brother," I said. "I know about Arthur Jr."

The silence in the room was absolute. Even the house seemed to hold its breath.

Julian lowered the flashlight. The beam hit the floor, casting long, distorted shadows across the Persian rug.

"You saw the ledger," he said.

"I saw everything," I said. "The baby in the wall. The mother in the cage. The son who watched."

He let out a sob, a ragged, ugly sound. "I was twelve, Elena. I was twelve years old."

"You're not twelve anymore," I said. "You're the CEO. You're the one holding the gun."

"I don't have a gun," he said. He held up his empty hands. "See? I just... I just wanted to explain."

"Explain what? That you let your father murder your brother? That you let him drug your mother into oblivion?"

"I didn't have a choice!" he shouted. The sound echoed off the vaulted ceiling. "He controls everything. The money. The police. The judges. What was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to be a man," I said.

I crawled out of the fireplace. I stood up, soot covering my clothes, my face, my hands. I held the piece of kindling like a club.

Julian looked at me. He looked at the wood in my hand. He laughed, a high, hysterical sound.

"You're going to hit me with a stick?" he asked. "Go ahead. I probably deserve it."

"I'm not going to hit you," I said. "I'm going to leave. And I'm going to take that ledger with me."

"You can't," he said. "Miller is outside. He's watching the exits."

"Miller is a thug," I said. "He works for whoever pays him."

"And Arthur pays him," Julian said. "Arthur pays everyone."

"Not anymore," I said. "You're the CEO now, Julian. Remember?"

I took a step toward him.

"You have the power. You can call Miller off. You can unlock the gate. You can end this."

He looked at me, his eyes searching mine. "If I do... if I let you go... it all comes down. The company. The name. Everything."

"It's already down," I said. "It's built on a graveyard."

I reached into my pocket. I pulled out the bottle of wine I had grabbed from the rack in the pantry on my way to the library. A 1982 Chateau Margaux. Arthur’s favorite.

I hadn't opened it.

"I need a drink," I said, my voice trembling. "And so do you."

Julian looked at the bottle. He looked at the scotch in his hand.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I do."

I walked to the desk. I set the bottle down. I picked up the corkscrew that sat next to the humidor.

I opened the wine. The pop was loud in the silent room.

I poured it into a tumbler.

"Here," I said.

He took it. He drank it in one gulp.

"Do you trust me?" I asked.

He looked at me, his eyes wet. "I've always trusted you, El. You're the only real thing in my life."

"Then trust me now," I said. "Let me walk out of here. And tomorrow, we'll fix this. Together."

He stared at the empty glass. He was wavering. I could see it. The little boy who had watched his father bury a baby was fighting the man who had signed the DNR.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."

He reached for his phone. "I'll call Miller."

He dialed. He put the phone to his ear.

"Miller," he said. "Let her go. Stand down."

He listened for a second. Then he lowered the phone. He looked at me, his face pale.

"He hung up," Julian said.

A siren wailed in the distance. Approaching fast.

"Miller didn't call the police," Julian said. "He called Dad."

I grabbed the ledger from the desk. I grabbed the wine bottle.

"Run," I said.

But it was too late.

Headlights swept across the library windows. Tires screeched on the gravel.

Car doors slammed.

"Open the wine cellar," I said.

Julian blinked. "What?"

"The wine cellar!" I shouted. "It has a dumbwaiter. It goes to the garage."

We ran.

We reached the kitchen just as the front door burst open.

"Search the house!" Miller’s voice. And behind it, another voice. Colder. Sharper.

"Find them. And bring me the book."

Arthur.

He wasn't at the facility. He was here.

We scrambled down the narrow stairs to the cellar. I pulled the heavy door shut and threw the bolt.

It wouldn't hold them for long.

The cellar was cool, lined with racks of dust-covered bottles worth more than my life.

I ran to the back. The dumbwaiter was set into the wall, a small wooden door used to send cases up to the kitchen.

It was small. Too small for Julian.

But big enough for me.

"Get in," Julian said.

"What about you?"

"I'll hold the door," he said. He grabbed a bottle of champagne by the neck. "Go."

I looked at him. For the first time in ten years, he didn't look like a coward. He looked like a husband.

I climbed into the dumbwaiter. I pulled the ledger to my chest.

"Julian," I said.

"Go," he said. "Save her."

He pushed the button.

The motor whirred. The box jerked upward.

Through the crack in the door, I saw the cellar door splinter inward. I saw Miller burst in, gun drawn.

And I saw Julian swing the bottle.

Then the darkness swallowed me.