11. On the Record
Chapter eleven
On the Record
Reaching over my shoulder, Simon slid an expensive silver fountain pen directly into my left hand. I stared at the metal barrel, knowing I was about to use it to sign his arrest warrant.
I let my fingers curl loosely around it, feigning a pathetic, trembling weakness. The metallic chill bit into my skin. Beneath the knit blanket draped over my lap, my right thumb hovered over the play button of the hidden phone.
“Mr. Davis,” Simon said, pitching his voice into a low, mournful drone. “I want to assure the state that the Vanguard transition will be seamless. Audrey built this agency from the ground up. Taking the reins from her is a responsibility I do not take lightly.”
The arrogance radiating from his tone sent a sudden, sharp thrill through me. I stared straight ahead at the contract, breathing in the sharp scent of the fresh printer ink. Lawrence sat perfectly still, his eyes focused squarely on the document, waiting for the trap to spring.
Simon shifted his weight, resting his hand possessively on the back of my chair. The heat of his palm bled right through my suit jacket.
“I just want it on the record that taking over for Audrey is the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Simon continued, heaving a tragic sigh. “I love her completely.”
Nina shifted in her leather seat. The stiff emerald fabric of her dress rustled loudly against the wood. She reached across the polished table, placing a delicate hand directly over Simon’s wrist.
“You’ve been so strong for her, Simon,” Nina murmured.
Listening to them use my supposed illness against me steadied my breathing.
This wasn’t a tragedy; it was a theater production, and they were taking a bow before the curtains even closed.
My right thumb pressed harder against the smooth glass screen, bracing against the plastic casing underneath the yarn.
I didn’t feel afraid. A cold, hollow calm flooded my chest. The marriage was already dead. Now, I was just burying it.
I stopped pretending.
The manufactured tremble in my left arm vanished. I stiffened my wrist and opened my hand, releasing the silver fountain pen.
It hit the mahogany with a sharp clatter, rolling off the signature page and coming to a stop near Lawrence’s water glass.
Simon’s patronizing smile faltered. His hand twitched against the back of my chair.
He looked down at the pen, then back up to my face, waiting for an apology or an explanation for my ‘sudden clumsiness’.
I offered neither. I lifted my chin, staring him dead in the eye, and dropped the frail, breathy act entirely.
“I’m not signing this.”
I drove my right thumb down against the glass screen. As the device connected, a sudden electronic chime sounded from the massive flat-screen television mounted on the wall directly behind me.
“Audrey, we talked about this. You have to sign it.”
The television blasted to life at maximum volume.
Bright, harsh light flared over my shoulders. The wet, echoing slap of skin against skin filled the formal dining room, bouncing sharply off the mahogany walls. I didn’t turn around to look. I didn’t need to. I kept my gaze locked squarely on Simon’s face.
His eyes widened, his gaze darting from my forehead to the screen above me. The blood drained rapidly from his cheeks, leaving him a sickening shade of gray.
Simon’s recorded voice, amplified and raw, flooded the space. “The inhibitor knocks her completely out. We have the whole house to ourselves.”
Nina flinched. A ragged gasp caught in her throat. She snatched her manicured fingers back from Simon’s wrist, gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white.
“When is the facility coming to get her?” Nina’s recorded voice asked, impatient and cruel.
Mr. Davis shoved himself backward. The harsh, grating screech of his chair legs dragging across the hardwood floor pierced the noise. He dropped his pen, staring over my head, his mouth hanging open.
“What the hell is this?” Mr. Davis demanded, his voice pitching high. “Is that you on the screen?”
Lawrence calmly steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the table. He watched the devastation unfold with the clinical detachment of an executioner.
I took a slow, deep breath. I relished the way my heartbeat slowed and steadied while the rest of the room hyperventilated.
The frantic, terrified panic radiating across the table didn’t affect me.
The arrogant mask my husband had worn for six months was peeling away right in front of me.
I sat completely still, watching the room fall apart around me.
Simon remained frozen in his chair for three agonizing seconds. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
The television speakers continued to echo, trapping him inside his own confession. The initial shock finally wore off. He scrambled to his feet, knocking his chair backward as he hit the table’s edge.
“Turn that off! Audrey, where did you get this?”
My fingers uncurled. The burner phone slipped from my palm into my lap. I grabbed the edge of the knit blanket covering my legs and violently shoved it aside, sending the device clattering to the hardwood beneath my wheels. The yarn pooled around my ankles, exposing my legs.
“Simon, do something! Make it stop!” Nina shrieked, pressing her hands over her ears as the moans from the speakers continued to flood the room.
I ignored her. I gripped the rubberized armrests of the wheelchair. I braced my core, drew a sharp breath, and pushed.
An agonizing, abrasive burn fired straight through my calves and shins.
My recovering muscles shook wildly under the sudden demand of bearing my own weight.
I refused to flinch. I drove my heels flat against the floorboards and locked my knees.
I straightened my spine, rising to my full height until I towered completely over the metal chair.
Nina dropped her hands from her ears, her mouth falling open. “How are you standing? You can’t stand up!”
The physical pain in my lower body faded beneath the satisfaction of having the upper hand. I was no longer the ‘helpless victim’ in his PR campaign. I squared my shoulders and took one deliberate, unassisted step forward. Then another.
Simon’s jaw went slack. Seeing me walk stripped the color from his face. He recoiled, scrambling frantically backward. His expensive leather shoes scraped and skidded against the polished wood as he desperately tried to put distance between us.
“I’ve been throwing your poison away for ten days, Simon,” I said, my voice cutting cleanly through the panic in the room.
He retreated another step, twisting blindly until his hip collided hard with the thick edge of a mahogany sideboard. The impact jolted him. He was trapped.
I closed the remaining gap, getting right in his face and letting my shadow loom directly over him. The physical dominance stripped away the last of his confidence. The man who had so easily poisoned me was now reduced to a cornered, hyperventilating coward looking up at me.
“Audrey, wait. Just let me explain, please,” he stammered, raising his shaking hands in a pathetic gesture of surrender.
I stared down at his manicured fingers—the same fingers that had crushed pills into my breakfast, the same fingers that had touched Nina on my living room rug. I felt no sorrow for him. I felt nothing but a hard, predatory satisfaction.
“There is nothing left to explain. You are completely finished.”
Across the table, Lawrence made his move. He flipped open his leather folder. He gripped a thick stack of court documents, lifting them high before driving them down. They hit the mahogany with a brutal smack.
The sound echoed like a gunshot over the television audio still humming in the background. A bright red court seal was stamped on the top page, stark and official against the white paper. The acrid chemical smell of the toner drifted across the table.
Lawrence leaned forward, resting his palms flat on the wood. “As of 9:00 AM today, a judge has frozen every single bank account tied to your name. I am also serving you this divorce decree. You are entirely insolvent.”
I released a slow, steady breath. The rigid, tight knots that had locked my neck and shoulders for ten days finally began to loosen. He didn’t care about me, but he cared deeply about his image. Watching Lawrence legally sever his access to those accounts settled the last of my anger.
Towering over him felt good, but watching him realize he could no longer buy his way out of a room felt even better.
Simon tore his gaze away from me and stared down at the red seal. His chest heaved. “You can’t do that! That’s my company too!”
The delusion of his entitlement disgusted me. He was completely cornered, yet he still looked at the paperwork as if this were a standard boardroom negotiation. He reached for it, his fingers trembling as they hovered over the injunction.
Lawrence didn’t flinch. He smoothly slid a second, thinner file directly over the divorce decree. He tapped the printed lab report with his index finger. “You don’t have a company. And thanks to the tox screen on the poison you gave her, you don’t have a defense either.”
“A copy of this is already sitting on the District Attorney’s desk,” Lawrence added. The word ‘poison’ hung in the air, killing any argument Simon had left.
Simon crumbled. His knees buckled slightly, knocking against the table edge as the reality of the lab report finally set in.
A sharp, shuddering gasp came from the other side of the room. Nina began to hyperventilate.
She stumbled backward, her designer heels catching awkwardly on the thick Persian rug. Nina raised her manicured hands, frantically shaking her head as she backed away, desperate to put space between herself and Simon.
“I didn’t do it! Simon bought the drugs. I had nothing to do with the poison!”
Lawrence reached into the inner breast pocket of his charcoal suit. He pulled out his smartphone, tapped the screen, and slid the device away.
Ten seconds ticked by. The audio from the television feed finally gave way to static silence. Only Nina’s panicked, ragged breaths disturbed the quiet of the dining room.
A violent, splintering crash erupted from the foyer. The heavy oak front doors flew open, slamming brutally against the drywall. Tactical boots rushed across the marble entryway with a hard, synchronized thud, the sound echoing straight through the house.
Three uniformed police officers and a plainclothes detective charged through the dining room archway. They bypassed Lawrence and me entirely, swarming the far end of the table.
“Hands behind your back. Stop resisting,” the lead uniformed officer barked. He grabbed Simon by the collar of his pristine suit jacket, spun him around, and shoved him face-first onto the mahogany table.
Simon’s cheek struck the polished wood with a sickening smack.
The red-sealed legal documents scattered over the edge, raining onto the Persian rug.
A second officer grabbed Nina by her bare shoulder.
Ignoring her shrieking, he dragged her forward and pinned her upper body flat against the table right next to Simon.
With a sharp, metallic click, steel handcuffs ratcheted tight around their wrists, locking them in place.
The plainclothes detective stepped to the head of the table. “Simon Prescott and Nina Gallagher, you are both under arrest for aggravated assault and conspiracy to commit fraud.”
Nina dissolved into chaotic, desperate sobbing. Her makeup smeared across the mahogany finish, her bare hands wrenching uselessly against the unforgiving steel cuffs. Simon thrashed. He strained against the officer’s firm grip, twisting his neck to look over his shoulder at me.
“Audrey, tell them to stop! I’m your husband!”
The claim lingered in the silence, pathetic and utterly hollow. He wasn’t my husband. He was just a cornered criminal wearing a crumpled suit. Watching the police pin him down and strip away his control brought a quiet, absolute stillness to my mind.
My shoulders dropped, shedding the defensive tension I had carried since the hospital. For the first time in half a year, I drew a deep, unobstructed breath.
“Get him out of my house, Detective,” I said.
The officers hauled Simon and Nina off the wood. They marched them roughly toward the foyer, ignoring their frantic protests. The shouting faded down the hallway, cut off abruptly by the solid slam of the front doors.
Silence reclaimed the dining room.
Footsteps approached from the archway, slower and steadier this time. Owen entered the room. He wore a faded henley and scuffed work boots, bringing the crisp chill of the autumn air with him. He bypassed the overturned chairs and the scattered paperwork, stopping at my side, his eyes finding mine.
“It’s over. You did it.”