Chapter 2 - THE ACCIDENT AND THE OFFICE
I forced my hand to relax around the handle of the blue ceramic cup.
“It’s a special chamomile blend,” Judith said smoothly, her eyes completely unblinking. “Sourced from a little apothecary I visited in Charleston. It’s meant to help you sleep, Claire. You’ve been so… on edge lately.”
On edge.
Nathan had used that exact phrase when he suggested this trip.
“She’s right, Claire,” Nathan added, finally setting his phone face-down on the table. He offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Drink up. You need the rest.”
Beneath the table, Owen’s shoe tapped mine again. Harder this time.
I needed a distraction. I needed a reason not to take a single sip of whatever was steaming inside that cup.
“It smells lovely, Judith,” I said, lifting the cup just an inch off the saucer.
Then, with a deliberate, calculated flick of my wrist, I tipped the hot liquid directly onto my own lap.
I gasped loudly, shoving my chair back against the hardwood floor.
The ceramic cup shattered.
“Oh my goodness!” I cried out, brushing desperately at my jeans. “I’m so clumsy. I’m so sorry, Judith!”
Nathan stood up immediately, but he didn’t reach for a towel. He stared at the broken ceramic on the floor. His jaw tightened.
“Are you burned, Mom?” Owen asked. His voice trembled slightly, playing the role of the frightened child perfectly.
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” I said, keeping my voice shaky. “But I need to change. And find a towel.”
“I’ll get the mop,” Judith said. Her voice had lost its warmth. It was flat. Cold.
“Let me just grab a different pair of pants,” I stammered, hurrying out of the dining room before either of them could stop me.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I rushed down the dimly lit hallway.
I didn’t go to the guest bedroom.
Instead, I slipped into Nathan’s makeshift office at the end of the hall. He had spent three hours locked in here this afternoon, claiming he had urgent emails.
I needed to know why my son was terrified.
The office was dark, lit only by the storm raging outside the window. I turned on the small desk lamp.
Nathan’s leather briefcase was sitting open on the chair.
I started digging through it. Folders. Invoices. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then, I saw it.
Sitting perfectly centered on his mahogany desk was a single sheet of heavy white paper.
At the top, written in Nathan’s neat, block handwriting, was my name.
CLAIRE.
Beneath it were three specific times.
8:15 PM — Tea served.
9:00 PM — Unconscious / Room secured.
11:30 PM — The window.
A wave of pure ice washed over my skin.
I glanced at the heavy silver clock on his desk. It was 8:22 PM.
They had planned this. Whatever “this” was, it was a precise, calculated schedule. And it ended at 11:30 with a window.
But as my eyes scanned the bottom of the page, I stopped breathing entirely.
There was a second heading.
OWEN.
Beneath my son’s name was only one line.
Midnight — The inheritance transfers to sole guardian.
May you like
I gripped the edge of the desk to stop myself from collapsing. It wasn’t just me. It was about money. And it involved Owen.
Then, the brass doorknob to the office slowly began to turn.
