Chapter 8 - The Hangar and the Final Piece
The regional airport was a desolate stretch of flat concrete bathed in harsh amber sodium lights.
Tessa bypassed the main terminal, driving my battered, windowless sedan straight toward the chain-link gates of the private hangars. She punched in a four-digit code at the keypad—Dennis’s birthday. The gate slid open.
Hangar 4 was at the far end, its massive corrugated doors rolled halfway up. Inside, a sleek, white twin-engine jet was fueled and waiting.
Dennis stood near the landing gear. He had changed out of his torn suit jacket. He looked calm again. Professional. Deadly.
At his feet, a small boy in a blue winter coat was sitting on a duffel bag, clutching a worn stuffed bear, crying silently.
Tessa slammed the car into park and tried to throw open her door.
“Wait,” I snapped, grabbing her arm. “If you run out there crying, he has all the power. Walk behind me. Let me do the talking.”
Tessa swallowed hard and nodded.
I stepped out of the car. The cold air smelled of jet fuel and frost.
Dennis watched me walk toward him. His eyes flicked to my empty hands, then back to my face.
“Where’s the book, Eleanor?” he asked. “And where is your father’s little flash drive?”
“I don’t have them,” I said, stopping ten feet away.
Dennis laughed, a cruel, sharp sound. “Then you made a very stupid trip. Get on the plane, Leo.”
He grabbed the boy by the arm. Tessa screamed and lunged forward, but I caught her coat, holding her back.
“I don’t have them,” I repeated, my voice echoing in the cavernous hangar, “because I gave them to Detective Miller at the precinct twenty minutes ago.”
Dennis froze. The blood drained from his face, leaving him looking sickly under the hangar lights.
“You’re lying,” he hissed. “You wouldn’t do that. Katie’s house is tied to me. If I go down, she loses her home.”
“Katie is willing to rent an apartment if it means you rot in a federal prison,” I said, stepping closer. The fear I had lived with for the past year was entirely gone. “The company auditors aren’t coming on Monday, Dennis. The FBI is coming tonight.”
Dennis’s eyes darted frantically toward the open hangar doors, searching the dark runway for approaching sirens.
“You ruined everything,” he spat, dropping Leo’s arm. He took a step toward me, his hands curling into fists. “Twenty years I worked for that company, and they passed me over for promotion three times. I took what was owed to me. I built a life for us!”
“You built a life for yourself!” Tessa screamed, finally breaking free of my grip. She ran forward and scooped the crying boy into her arms, backing away quickly. “You stole from your family to buy my silence!”
Dennis ignored her. His eyes were fixed on me, filled with a venomous hatred.
“You think you’ve won?” he sneered, reaching into his pocket. “You think you get to walk away the righteous victim?”
He pulled out a crumpled, white square of fabric.
It was the missing piece of my mother’s Thanksgiving tablecloth. The corner with the rest of her signature and the gravy stain.
“I kept this one,” Dennis said, holding it up like a trophy. “Because I knew it would break you. Your mother died knowing I was stealing from her. I told her on her deathbed, Eleanor. I whispered it in her ear while you were out getting coffee.”
The cruelty of it stole the breath from my lungs. My mother had died in distress, knowing this monster was taking everything her husband had worked for.
Dennis smiled, seeing the pain register on my face. He took a lighter from his other pocket.
“Let’s finish clearing things out, shall we?” he said, flicking the lighter. The small orange flame danced in the cold air.
He moved the flame toward the cotton fabric.
Suddenly, the deafening shriek of police sirens cut through the night.
Red and blue lights flooded the hangar, bouncing wildly off the white fuselage of the jet. Four squad cars skidded to a halt outside the open doors, blocking the exit.
Dennis spun around, dropping the lighter in panic.
“Drop the fabric and put your hands on your head!” a voice boomed over a bullhorn.
Dennis looked at the police, then back at the jet. The pilot had already shut the door and killed the engines, abandoning him.
Defeated, Dennis let the square of tablecloth flutter to the concrete floor. He slowly raised his hands and fell to his knees.
May you like
I didn’t look at him as two officers rushed in to cuff him.
I walked past my husband, knelt on the cold concrete, and picked up the piece of my mother’s legacy.
