Chapter 15 - The Predator in the Hallway
I didn't answer. I motioned for Chloe to stay put, took off my wool slippers, and began ascending the cellar stairs in thick socks, moving with the silent, coiled efficiency of someone who owned every inch of this territory.
I pushed the pantry door open an inch.
The living room was illuminated only by the headlights of Mark's idling SUV streaming through the front bay window, casting long, skeletal shadows across the furniture. Mark was standing by the stone fireplace, holding a tumbler of my bourbon in his left hand, his right hand buried deep in the pocket of his tailored wool overcoat. His silver hair was neatly combed, his jawline sharp under the ambient light.
He looked as pristine, untouchable, and dangerous as he had on the morning of our wedding.
"I know you're in the kitchen, Eleanor," he said without turning around. "I smell your cedar perfume."
I stepped out from behind the pantry door, the steel pry-bar held low behind my thigh. "You shouldn't have come here, Mark."
He turned slowly, a relaxed, patronizing smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. He looked at me—barefaced, dressed in an oversized sweater and dark jeans—and raised his glass in a mock toast.
"You look well," he murmured. "The quiet life suits you. Though I see you finally turned the porch light off. That hurt, you know. Just a little."
"The letter was a masterpiece of legal insulation," I said, taking two slow steps toward the granite kitchen island. "You sent it via certified mail to my attorney's office so you could enter it into the public probate record as proof of emotional detachment before the subpoenas landed."
Mark's smirk faltered for the briefest instant, replaced by a glint of genuine, chilling admiration. "God, you really are brilliant. What a waste it was, keeping you in Scarsdale while I ran the firm."
"Where is the gun, Mark?" I asked coldly.
His hand remained deep inside the overcoat pocket. He didn't deny it. "I don't want to use it, Eleanor. I never wanted any of this to get messy. I just need Chloe. And I need the flash drives she stole from my office safe. Once I have them, I get on a private charter out of Teterboro at dawn. You stay here. You keep the house. You keep your quiet, pathetic little life. Nobody ever looks at the Meridian Trust."
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"And what happens to Chloe?"
Mark took a sip of the bourbon, letting the amber liquid sit on his tongue before swallowing. "Chloe doesn't have an archivist's mind, Eleanor. She's a loose thread. And in my business, you burn loose threads before the fabric unravels."
