David's Choice

The flashlight beam pinned her against the wine rack. Claire raised a hand, shielding her eyes from the glare, her other hand tightening around the useless skeleton key in her pocket.

"The key doesn't work, Claire," Arthur said, his voice echoing off the damp stone walls. "The original mortise lock was charming, but hardly secure. I had the core replaced on Tuesday. While you were at the funeral home picking out flowers."

He took another step down. The gun in his hand was low, casual, a mere extension of his bathrobe.

"David told me you were at the club," Claire said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts. "Squash with Marcus."

"David thinks I'm at the club," Arthur corrected. "Just as he thinks you are visiting your mother in Boca. He’s a good boy, David. He believes what he’s told."

He reached the bottom of the stairs. The basement was a labyrinth of shadows, but Arthur moved through it with the ease of ownership. He didn't come closer. He didn't need to. He stood between her and the only exit.

"Why did you change the lock, Arthur? What's in there that you're so afraid of?"

"History," he said simply. "Family history is a delicate thing. It requires curation. Like a garden. You prune the dead branches so the living ones can thrive."

"You mean you burn the evidence."

Arthur sighed. "You make it sound so sordid. I saved this family, Claire. In 1992, we were on the brink of ruin. Evelyn—the first Evelyn—was unstable. She was going to leave. She was going to take half the estate, half the business, and drag our name through a very public, very messy divorce."

He gestured with the flashlight, the beam sweeping across the heavy oak door of the File Room.

"She died," he said. "A tragedy. But also... an opportunity. The insurance payout stabilized the firm. The public sympathy bolstered our stock. And then, when the time was right, I brought home a mother for my son. A wife for the public. A woman who understood the assignment."

"You mean you bought a woman," Claire said. "You hired an actress. Lena Kovac."

Arthur’s face hardened. The beam of light snapped back to her face, blinding her.

"Where did you hear that name?"

"I found the photo. In the library. The one you missed." Claire took a step forward, adrenaline overriding her fear. "David remembers her, Arthur. Deep down. He remembers that she wasn't his mother."

"David remembers what I tell him to remember!" Arthur’s voice cracked, a rare fissure in his composure. "He was four years old. He needed a mother. I gave him one. A better one. One who didn't cry all day. One who didn't threaten to leave."

He raised the gun slightly.

"I gave him a perfect childhood. I gave this family thirty years of peace. And you want to destroy it because of a tax audit?"

"I want the truth," Claire said. "And I'm going to get it. I have the death certificate. I have the IRS on the line. You can't stop this."

"I can slow it down," Arthur said. "Long enough to clean up the rest. Long enough for you to... disappear."

He took a step toward her. The gun was leveled now.

"Go upstairs, Claire. We're going to take a drive."

"No."

"I wasn't asking."

He lunged.

Claire threw herself to the side, crashing into the wine rack. Bottles shattered, spraying red liquid across the floor like blood. She scrambled over the glass, desperate to put distance between them.

"David!" she screamed. "David!"

"He can't hear you," Arthur said, advancing on her. "He's at the club. Or maybe he's home by now, sleeping in the bed you abandoned. He won't help you, Claire. He chose his side."

Claire backed into a corner, her hands searching the darkness for a weapon. Her fingers closed around the neck of a heavy Bordeaux bottle that hadn't broken.

"He chose his mother," Arthur said, looming over her. "The mother I gave him."

"He chose a lie!" Claire swung the bottle.

It connected with Arthur’s wrist.

The gun clattered to the floor. Arthur roared in pain, clutching his arm.

Claire didn't wait. She kicked the gun away, sending it sliding into the darkness under the storage crates. Then she ran.

She scrambled up the stairs, her breath tearing at her throat. She burst into the kitchen, the bright lights blinding her after the dark basement.

David was standing there.

He was wearing his squash gear, his bag on the floor. He held a glass of water, his eyes wide with shock as Claire exploded from the cellar door, covered in dust and wine.

"Claire?" he stammered. "What...?"

"He has a gun," Claire gasped, pointing at the open door behind her. "Your father. He tried to kill me."

Arthur appeared at the top of the stairs. He was pale, clutching his wrist, but his face was composed. The mask was back in place.

"David," Arthur said, his voice calm, reasonable. "Thank god you're home. Claire... she's having an episode. She broke into the wine cellar. She attacked me."

David looked at Claire. He looked at the red stains on her clothes. He looked at his father, the patriarch, the pillar of the community, standing there in his silk robe, injured and vulnerable.

"David, please," Claire begged. "He admitted it. He admitted Lena Kovac. He admitted everything."

David looked at her. And for a moment, she saw the doubt in his eyes. The memory of the woman in the red dress. The breakfast conversation.

But then he looked at Arthur.

And the doubt vanished, replaced by the terrified obedience of a four-year-old boy.

"You're bleeding, Dad," David said. He stepped between them, shielding his father. He turned to Claire, his face hard.

"Get out of my house, Claire. Before I call the police."

"David, he tried to—"

"I said get out!"

He moved toward her, not to hold her, but to herd her. He was protecting the estate. He was protecting the lie.

Claire backed away, her heart breaking all over again.

"If you keep pushing him, Claire," David said, his voice trembling, "I can't protect you. I won't."