The elevator chime of The Drake Hotel in Chicago sounded like a wedding bell, crisp and golden. I leaned my head against the cool brass railing, watching the numbers climb to the penthouse suite. My feet were throbbing in my white satin heels, my cheeks hurt from smiling for six hours straight, and my heart felt like it was floating in a pool of golden light.
“Mrs. Sarah Sterling,” I whispered to myself, testing the weight of the new name on my tongue. It tasted like expensive fondant and forever.
Mark, my husband of exactly four hours, had sent me ahead. “Go up, baby,” he’d said, kissing my forehead in the lobby while the bellhop loaded our luggage onto a cart. “I need to grab that special vintage champagne from the concierge I ordered. Go get comfortable. I’ll be up in five.“
I swiped the key card, and the door to the Royal Suite swung open. It was breathtaking—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline of Lake Michigan, a canopy bed the size of a small island, and rose petals scattered with an artistic carelessness that probably cost five hundred dollars.
I kicked off my heels, groaning with relief. I spun around the room, my lace gown swirling around me. I was twenty-six, I had just married the most charming real estate developer in Illinois, and life was perfect.
That’s when the idea hit me.
It was childish. It was silly. But we were the couple who laughed. We were the couple who had a taco truck at our rehearsal dinner. I wanted to start our marriage with a laugh, not just romance.
“Five minutes,” I muttered, checking the antique clock on the mantel.
I grabbed the heavy bottle of hotel champagne from the ice bucket—not the special one Mark was bringing, just the welcome gift—and looked at the bed. The dust ruffle was thick, cream-colored damask. Perfect.
I dropped to my knees, hiking up layers of tulle and silk, and shimmied onto the plush carpet beneath the bed frame. It was tight, smelling faintly of vacuum cleaner dust and lavender carpet powder. I positioned myself so I could see the door, giggling silently, my hand clamped over my mouth.
I waited.
One minute passed. Then three. I could hear my own heartbeat, a frantic thump-thump of excitement against the floorboards.
Then the distinct click of the electronic lock.
Here we go, I thought, suppressing a snort of laughter. He’s going to freak out.
The door opened.
But he didn’t call out my name. He didn’t say, “Sarah? Honey?“
Instead, there was a heavy sigh. A sound of irritation, not love.
And then, the footsteps.
Mark had a heavy, confident stride. I heard that. But then, a second set of footsteps followed. The sharp, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of stilettos on the hardwood entryway.
My smile froze in the darkness.
Room service? I thought. Maybe the concierge brought the wine up for him?
I shifted slightly, peering through the gap between the floor and the hem of the dust ruffle.
I saw Mark’s black dress shoes, the ones I had polished for him that morning.
And right next to them, a pair of red, strappy heels with a distinct crystal bow on the ankle.
My breath hitched in my throat. The air in my lungs turned to ice.
I knew those shoes. I had paid for them. I had spent two hours in Nordstrom with my best friend, Jessica, helping her pick them out. They were her Maid of Honor shoes.
“Are you sure she’s not coming back?” Jessica’s voice cut through the silence. It wasn’t the warm, bubbly voice she’d used during her toast an hour ago. It was sharp, cold, and annoyed.
“I told you,” Mark’s voice replied. It was a tone I had never heard directed at me—dismissive and arrogant. “I sent her up first. I told her to drink the water on the nightstand. I crushed three Ambien into it. By the time I walked in, she should be out cold.“
I stared at the water bottle on the nightstand, just inches from my view. It was unopened. I hadn’t touched it. I had been too busy crawling under the bed.
“Well, where is she?” Jessica snapped. “The bathroom?“
“Must be,” Mark said. The bed dipped above me as he sat down heavily. The springs squeaked, a sound that felt like a scream in my ears. “God, my face hurts from smiling at her insane mother all night.“
“Don’t start,” Jessica said. I saw the red shoes walk around the bed. She sat down next to him. “You’re the one who wanted the big wedding to keep up appearances. We could have done this at the courthouse and saved fifty grand.“
“Appearances matter, Jess. You know the drill. If I don’t look like the doting husband, the board gets suspicious.“
I bit my own knuckle to keep from screaming. Tears, hot and fast, flooded my eyes, blurring my vision of their shoes. My husband. My best friend. They weren’t just cheating. They were plotting.
“Did you get the document?” Jessica asked.
“It’s in her bag. She signed it at the notary last week. She thought it was the prenup amendment for the life insurance. She didn’t even read the fine print.“
“God, she’s stupid,” Jessica laughed. It was a cruel, ugly sound. “She really thinks you bought this house for us?“
“Technically, I did,” Mark chuckled. “I bought it with her credit, in her name, leveraging her family’s trust fund as collateral. Once the transfer goes through on Monday, I legally own the assets, and she owns the debt. It’s beautiful.“
My head was spinning. The signing. Last Tuesday. We had gone to a notary in a strip mall. Mark had been in a rush. Just standard paperwork, babe. Just to make sure you’re protected if anything happens to me. I had signed it. I had signed everything he put in front of me because I loved him. Because I trusted him.
“So, what’s the timeline?” Jessica asked.
Mark shifted, and I heard the slide of a phone screen. “Let’s call The Broker. He needs to know the ‘accident’ is scheduled.“
Accident?
Mark put the phone on speaker. It sat on the duvet, directly above my head.
A ringtone. Then, a deep, raspy voice answered.
“Is it done?“
“Not yet,” Mark said. “We’re in the room. She’s… indisposed. Asleep, I assume.“
“Is she asleep, or is she dead, Mark? Precision matters.“
“Asleep,” Mark said. “The plan is for the honeymoon. St. Lucia. A hiking accident on the Pitons. Tragic slip. Distraught husband. We claim the life insurance and the property liquidation within thirty days.“
I clamped both hands over my mouth, squeezing so hard my nails dug into my skin. They were going to kill me. They weren’t just stealing my money. They were going to kill me on our honeymoon.
“Make sure the body is recoverable,” the voice on the phone said. “If she just disappears, the payout takes seven years. I don’t have seven years, Mark. I have investors breathing down my neck.“
“I know, I know,” Mark said impatiently. “Push, fall, recover. I’ve got the guide paid off in Soufrière.“
“And the girl?“
“Sarah? She’s clueless. She thinks she’s living a fairy tale. It’s pathetic, really.“
Jessica chimed in. “I’ll admit, the dress was nice. Shame I’ll have to sell it on eBay next month.“
“Focus,” the voice snapped. “Find the document now. Verify the signature. Then wait for her to pass out completely. Once she’s out, stage the room. Make it look like she got drunk and fell asleep. We fly out tomorrow morning.“
“On it,” Mark said. “Bye.“
The call ended.
“Alright,” Mark stood up. “Check the bathroom. I’ll check her suitcase.“
I saw the red shoes turn and walk toward the bathroom.
I had seconds.
If Jessica opened that bathroom door and saw it empty, they would search the room. They would find me. And they wouldn’t wait for St. Lucia.
Chapter 2: The Escape
I was paralyzed by terror, but a deeper, primal instinct kicked in. Survival.
“Mark!” Jessica called from the bathroom. “She’s not in here!“
“What?” Mark stopped rummaging through my suitcase near the wardrobe.
“It’s empty! Her makeup bag is here, but she’s not!“
“She can’t be gone,” Mark said, his voice rising in panic. “I saw her come up. The elevator logs will show it.“
“Maybe she went to get ice? Or went to the spa?“
“In her wedding dress?” Mark scoffed.
He walked toward the door. “I’m going to check the hallway. You check the balcony. If she jumped, we have a different set of problems.“
“If she jumped, we celebrate early,” Jessica muttered.
I saw the black shoes move to the door. The door opened and closed. Mark was gone.
Jessica walked toward the balcony doors. The heavy curtains were drawn. She pulled them back, stepping out onto the terrace to look over the railing.
This was it.
I didn’t think. I scrambled out from under the bed on the opposite side, the side furthest from the balcony. My massive tulle skirt caught on the metal bed frame. I yanked it, hearing a loud rip.
I froze.
Jessica turned from the balcony. “Mark?“
She stepped back into the room.
I was crouched behind the massive armchair in the corner. She couldn’t see me yet, but if she took two steps to the right…
Jessica looked at the bed. She looked at the torn piece of tulle caught on the metal frame.
Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t look scared; she looked predatory.
She reached into her purse—the matching red clutch I had given her as a gift that morning—and pulled out something small and metallic. A pocket knife.
“Sarah?” she cooed. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.“
She knew.
She began to circle the room. She was moving toward the closet first.
The door to the hallway was twenty feet away.
I kicked off my satin shoes. I needed to be silent.
Jessica opened the closet door. “Not here…“
She turned toward the armchair.
I grabbed the heavy crystal lamp from the side table. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I waited until she stepped around the chair, the knife glinting in the hotel light.
She saw me. Her eyes went wide. “You little bi—”
I swung the lamp with every ounce of betrayal, rage, and fear in my body.
It connected with the side of her head with a sickening thud.
Jessica crumpled to the carpet, the knife skittering away under the sofa.
I didn’t check to see if she was breathing. I didn’t check my pulse. I grabbed my purse from the floor where I had dropped it hours ago—my phone and the “document” were inside—and I ran.
I ran out the door, down the hallway, ignoring the elevators. I hit the stairwell.
I ran down thirty flights of stairs in my torn wedding dress, barefoot, adrenaline fueling my legs.
When I burst into the lobby, people stared. A bride, disheveled, panting, wild-eyed.
“Mrs. Sterling?” the concierge asked, stepping forward.
“Call the police,” I gasped, clutching the desk. “And get me a taxi. Now.“
Chapter 3: The Lion’s Den
I didn’t go to the police station immediately. I went to the one person Mark feared most: his father, Arthur Sterling.
Arthur was the patriarch of the family, a man of old money and rigid morals. He had retired years ago, leaving the business to Mark, but he still held the purse strings of the family trust. He had always been kind to me, though distant.
I arrived at his estate in Lake Forest at 2:00 AM. I pounded on the door until the butler answered, looking at me like I was an apparition.
Arthur came down in his robe, his face turning ashen when he saw me.
“Sarah? What happened? Where is Mark?“
I walked into his library, poured myself a scotch with shaking hands, and played the recording.
Yes, I had recorded it.
While lying under the bed, paralyzed by fear, I had done the only smart thing I could think of. I had slid my phone out of my pocket and hit ‘Voice Memo’.
Arthur listened to his son plotting my murder. He listened to the details of the financial fraud involving his own family trust. He listened to Jessica—the daughter of his business partner—laugh about selling my dress.
When the recording ended, Arthur didn’t speak for a long time. He looked older, smaller. He stared at the fireplace.
“He betrays us both,” Arthur whispered, his voice trembling with a suppressed fury. “He leverages my legacy to kill my daughter-in-law.“
“I’m going to the police, Arthur,” I said. “But I need your help first. I need that document nullified before Monday morning.“
Arthur looked up. His eyes were hard, cold steel. “No. The police will take too long. Mark has lawyers. He has ‘The Broker.‘ If you go to the police now, Mark will claim you’re hysterical, or that the recording is fake. He’ll bury you in litigation while he drains your accounts.“
“So what do we do?“
“We let him go to St. Lucia,” Arthur said.
“What?“
“He thinks you’re dead or missing. He’s panicking right now. If we silence the hotel staff—which I can do—and if we make him believe you are… compliant…“
“I’m not going on that honeymoon,” I said firmly.
“No,” Arthur said. “You aren’t. But Sarah Sterling is.“
Chapter 4: The Sting
The next 48 hours were a blur of covert operations. Arthur Sterling was a terrifyingly efficient man. He hired a private security team to “clean” the hotel room before Mark returned from searching the hallway. They removed Jessica’s unconscious body (she had a severe concussion but was alive) and deposited her at a private clinic under a Jane Doe alias, heavily sedated, monitored by Arthur’s payroll.
Then, Arthur had a woman—a decoy from his security firm who matched my height and build—check out of the hotel wearing a hoodie and sunglasses, using my credit card.
We planted a digital trail.
Mark, unable to find me or Jessica, was spiraling. I watched him from the security feeds Arthur hacked into. He was pacing the hotel room, calling The Broker, sweating.
“She’s gone,” Mark hissed into the phone. “Jessica is gone too. I think Sarah found out.“
“Find her,” The Broker threatened. “Or you take the fall for the fraud.“
Mark tracked my phone. I had left it on a bus heading to O’Hare airport.
He saw “Sarah Sterling” check into a flight for St. Lucia.
He thought I was running away to our honeymoon destination, perhaps out of confusion or denial. Or perhaps he thought I was just going there to wait for him.
He boarded the plane. He had to. He needed to silence me.
I wasn’t on the plane.
I was in Arthur’s study, surrounded by forensic accountants and the FBI. We weren’t just catching him for attempted murder. We were dismantling “The Broker’s” entire Ponzi scheme. Arthur had handed over every ledger, every secret account Mark had tried to hide.
Chapter 5: The View from the Pitons
Mark arrived at the resort in Soufrière. He looked like a man on the edge of a breakdown. He asked the front desk for Mrs. Sterling.
“She is in the villa, sir,” the receptionist said, briefed by the authorities.
Mark walked up the winding path to the cliffside villa. He entered, pulling a gun from his waistband. He wasn’t planning an accident anymore. He was desperate.
He walked into the bedroom.
A figure was standing on the balcony, looking out at the Pitons. She was wearing my white sundress.
“Sarah,” Mark said, raising the gun. “I’m sorry, babe. It’s just business.“
The figure turned around.
It wasn’t me.
It was a federal agent.
“Drop the weapon, Mark!“
Mark spun around. Agents poured in from the bathroom, the closet, the hallway.
And on the large TV screen mounted on the wall, a video feed flickered to life.
It was me. I was sitting in a safe house in Chicago.
“Hello, husband,” I said through the screen.
Mark froze, the gun dangling from his finger before he dropped it. “Sarah?“
“I heard everything, Mark. The notary. The sleeping pills. The hiking accident. I hid under the bed.“
Mark’s face crumpled. “Sarah, please. It was Jessica. She made me—”
“Save it,” I said cold, my voice steady. “And by the way, Arthur knows everything. The trust is frozen. The house is seized. You don’t own me. You don’t own anything.“
Mark fell to his knees as the agents cuffed him.
Chapter 6: The New Vows
The trial was the scandal of the decade. Mark, Jessica, and “The Broker” (who turned out to be a disgraced ex-banker operating out of the Cayman Islands) were all sentenced to life in prison. The charges ranged from conspiracy to commit murder to massive wire fraud.
I got an annulment. It was faster than a divorce.
I kept the shoes. The red ones Jessica wore. I keep them in a box in my closet as a reminder.
A reminder that the person you love might be a stranger. A reminder to trust your gut. And a reminder that sometimes, a silly, childish prank can save your life.
I’m dating again now, two years later. He’s a nice guy. A teacher. Simple. He doesn’t have a trust fund or a luxury condo.
But every time we go into a new room, I check the locks. And I never, ever, let anyone pour my drink when I’m not looking.
Chapter 7: The Second Pair of Shoes
Two years of peace is a long time when you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. For me, Sarah Sterling (now Sarah Miller, having reclaimed my maiden name), peace was a quiet apartment in Lincoln Park, a job at a non-profit, and David.
David was everything Mark wasn’t. He was a high school history teacher with messy hair, chalk dust on his cardigans, and a smile that reached his eyes. He didn’t care about trust funds. He cared about whether I wanted pepperoni or mushroom on our Friday night pizza.
But the peace ended on a rainy Tuesday in November.
I received a call from the family attorney. Arthur Sterling—my former father-in-law, my savior, the man who had dismantled his own son’s life to save mine—was dead.
“Heart attack,” the lawyer said. “It was sudden, Sarah. He left you something in the will. You need to come to the estate.”
I went to the funeral first. It was a somber affair. Mark was serving life without parole, so he wasn’t there. But as I stood by the grave, holding David’s hand, I saw something that made my blood run cold.
Standing at the edge of the cemetery, under a black umbrella, was a woman. She was turned away, but I saw her feet.
She was wearing red stilettos with a crystal bow on the ankle.
I blinked, and a passing hearse obscured my view. When it moved, she was gone.
“Sarah? You’re shaking,” David whispered, squeezing my hand.
“It’s nothing,” I lied. “Just the cold.”
That night, I went home and went straight to my closet. I pushed aside the winter coats and found the shoebox. The box where I kept her shoes—the ones Jessica had worn that night, the ones I kept as a trophy of my survival.
I opened the lid.
The box was empty.
Inside, there was only a single, white index card. On it, written in handwriting I recognized instantly—loopy, frantic, Jessica’s handwriting—were two words:
Nice try.
Chapter 8: The History Teacher
“Babe, are you okay? You haven’t touched your wine.”
David was sitting across from me at the kitchen island. He looked concerned.
“I’m fine,” I said, closing the closet door in my mind. “Just Arthur’s death. It hit me harder than I thought.”
“He was a good man,” David said. He stood up and walked around the counter to hug me. “Did he… did he mention anything to you recently? About the estate? Or any loose ends?”
I pulled back slightly. “Loose ends?”
“You know,” David shrugged, offering a lopsided smile. “With Mark. The fraud case. I just want to make sure you’re safe. If Arthur was protecting you, and he’s gone…”
“I’m safe,” I said. “Mark and Jessica are in prison. The Broker is in prison.”
“Right. Of course.” David kissed my forehead. “I’m going to grade papers in the study. Holler if you need anything.”
I watched him walk away.
A cold prickle started at the base of my neck.
David never asked about the Sterling case. In the year we’d been dating, he barely wanted to hear Mark’s name. He said it was “ancient history.” Why was he asking about loose ends now? And why did he seem so interested in Arthur’s estate?
I waited ten minutes. Then, I did something I hadn’t done since that night at the hotel. I took off my shoes to walk silently.
I crept down the hallway to the spare room we used as an office. The door was cracked open.
David wasn’t grading papers. He was on his phone. His voice was a hushed whisper.
“…she doesn’t know anything yet… No, I checked the closet. She saw the box was empty… Yeah, she’s rattled. I’ll get the access code for Arthur’s safe deposit box. Just give me time.”
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Not David. Please, God, not David.
“I know,” David whispered. “I love you too. Just wait a little longer.”
He hung up.
I sprinted back to the living room, grabbed a magazine, and threw myself onto the sofa, my heart rate soaring.
David walked out a minute later. “All done. Want to watch a movie?”
I looked at the man I had trusted with my recovery. The man I thought was simple and safe.
“Sure,” I smiled, though I felt like I was going to vomit. “You pick.”
Chapter 9: The Visitor at Stateville
The next morning, I told David I had a dentist appointment. Instead, I drove to Stateville Correctional Center.
I needed to see Mark.
He looked terrible. His hair was thinning, his skin sallow. He sat behind the plexiglass, looking at me with a mixture of hatred and amusement.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, wifey?” he sneered into the phone receiver.
“Arthur is dead,” I said.
Mark’s face didn’t change. “I know. Saw it on the news. Breaks my heart.”
“Someone stole Jessica’s shoes from my apartment,” I said. “And someone is watching me.”
Mark laughed. It was a dry, rattling sound. “You think it’s me? I can barely get an extra roll of toilet paper in here, Sarah. I’m not orchestrating home invasions.”
“Then who?”
Mark leaned forward, his breath fogging the glass. “You really didn’t get it, did you? You thought Jessica was just my sidepiece? My accomplice?”
“She was your puppet.”
“No, Sarah. I was hers. Jessica wasn’t just the maid of honor. She was the one who introduced me to The Broker. She was the one who came up with the life insurance scam. I just wanted the money. She wanted you dead.”
“Why?”
“Jealousy? Boredom? Who knows. But here’s the thing you missed. Jessica didn’t get life. She got twenty years. But she cut a deal last month. Turned state’s evidence on a cartel connection The Broker had.”
My stomach dropped. “She’s out?”
“Not out. Transferred. Minimum security. Work release. She has access, Sarah. And she has friends.” Mark paused, looking at me with pity. “And you know Jessica. She doesn’t leave games unfinished.”
“Who is she working with?” I asked.
Mark smiled. “Check your boyfriend’s bank account, Sarah. Ask him how a history teacher pays for a vintage Mustang restoration on a public school salary.”
Chapter 10: The Trap
I didn’t go home. I went to a spy shop in the city.
I bought three small cameras and a GPS tracker.
When I got back to the apartment, David was at work. I tore the place apart. I found it taped under the drawer of his nightstand. A burner phone.
I didn’t turn it on—he would know. I put it back.
Then, I planted the cameras. One in the living room. One in the kitchen. One in the study.
I placed the GPS tracker under the bumper of his car.
When David came home that evening, I was cooking lasagna. I poured him a glass of wine.
“I have to go to Arthur’s estate this weekend,” I said casually. “The lawyer said there’s a safe in the library. Arthur left me the combination in a sealed letter. I’m supposed to clear it out.”
David’s hand paused on his wine glass. Just for a fraction of a second.
“Oh?” he said. “Do you want me to come? For moral support?”
“No,” I said. “I need to do this alone. I’ll go Saturday morning.”
“Okay,” he said, taking a sip. “Whatever you need.”
Friday night, I pretended to sleep. I lay in bed, listening to David’s breathing change. At 2:00 AM, he slipped out of bed.
I watched on the camera feed on my phone from under the covers.
David went to the living room. He made a call.
“She’s going Saturday. She has the combination… Yes, to the library safe… I’ll be there. I’ll tail her… No, Jessica, don’t touch her until we have the ledger. The ledger is the key to the accounts… I know. I’ll see you there.”
Jessica.
He was speaking to her.
The man who held me when I cried. The man who graded papers on Sunday mornings. He was working for the woman who tried to kill me.
Chapter 11: The Library
Saturday morning. I drove to Arthur’s estate in Lake Forest. The house was empty, draped in dust sheets.
I parked my car in the driveway. I unlocked the front door and disarmed the alarm using the code Arthur had given me years ago.
I went to the library.
It was a massive room, lined with mahogany shelves. The safe was behind a painting of a hunt scene.
I didn’t open the safe. I didn’t have the combination. There was no letter. I had made it up.
Instead, I set up my phone on the bookshelf, hidden between two encyclopedias, recording the room.
And then, I did the only thing that had ever saved me.
I looked at the heavy velvet sofa in the center of the room. It had a long dust ruffle.
I crawled underneath it.
I waited.
Twenty minutes later, I heard a car pull up.
Then, the front door opened. The alarm didn’t sound. David must have stolen my code or hacked the system.
Footsteps.
“She’s here,” David’s voice echoed in the hallway. “Her car is outside.”
“Good.”
The second voice chilled me to the bone. It hadn’t changed. It was still sharp, arrogant, and cold.
Jessica.
They walked into the library.
From under the sofa, I saw David’s sneakers. And next to them, a pair of black combat boots. Jessica wasn’t wearing heels today. She was dressed for work.
“Where is she?” Jessica asked.
“Maybe she’s in the bathroom?” David suggested.
Déjà vu. It was happening all over again.
“Check the safe,” Jessica ordered. “If she opened it, the ledger should be there.”
David walked to the wall. He moved the painting. “It’s locked. She hasn’t opened it yet.”
“Then find her,” Jessica snapped. “She can’t have gone far.”
She walked toward the sofa. My heart slammed against my ribs.
“You know,” Jessica said, pacing. “I almost admire her. She survived Mark. She survived The Broker. But she’s so desperate to be loved, David. That’s her weakness. She let you right in.”
“I did my job,” David said, his voice flat. “I got you the info. When do I get paid?”
“When I have the money Arthur stole from Mark,” Jessica said. “That old man froze the assets, but he didn’t destroy them. He hid them in offshore accounts. The ledger is the key.”
“And Sarah?” David asked.
“Sarah has a tragic accident,” Jessica said. “A burglary gone wrong. So sad. The grieving boyfriend survives, but the widow… well, luck runs out eventually.”
She stopped pacing. She was standing right in front of the sofa.
“David,” she said slowly. “Why is there a phone on the bookshelf?”
Dammit.
“What?” David turned.
“There. Between the books. It’s recording.”
Jessica lunged for the phone. She grabbed it. She looked at the screen.
“She’s here,” Jessica whispered. She pulled a gun from her jacket. “She’s listening.”
“Check the closet!” David yelled.
“No,” Jessica said. She turned slowly, scanning the room. Her eyes landed on the sofa. “She’s a creature of habit, David. She likes to hide.”
She walked toward me.
I had no lamp this time. I had no weapon.
Jessica grabbed the edge of the sofa. She flipped it over with a grunt of exertion.
I was exposed, curled on the rug.
Jessica smiled. It was a terrifying, broken smile. She aimed the gun at my chest.
“Hello, bestie,” she said. “Did you miss me?”
Chapter 12: The Dead Man’s Switch
I didn’t scream. I looked at David. He looked away, shame—or maybe just cowardice—in his eyes.
“Shoot her,” Jessica ordered David. “Do it. You want your money? Earn it.”
She tossed the gun to him.
David caught it. He pointed it at me.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” he said. “I really did like the lasagna.”
“David, don’t,” I said, my voice steady. “Arthur knew.”
“Knew what?” Jessica snapped.
“Arthur knew you would come for the ledger. He knew Mark would talk. He knew I would be targeted.”
“Arthur is dead,” Jessica spat.
“Yes. But his security system isn’t.” I pointed to the ceiling. “Arthur installed a ‘Dead Man’s Switch’ in this house. If an unauthorized entry occurs—which you did, David, by hacking the code—and if the master biometric—my fingerprint—isn’t scanned on the safe within five minutes of entry…”
I checked my watch.
“It’s been five minutes and ten seconds.”
CLICK.
A loud mechanical sound echoed through the house. Steel shutters slammed down over the windows of the library. The door to the hallway slammed shut and bolted automatically.
“What is this?” Jessica screamed, running to the door. She pounded on it. Locked.
“It’s a panic room,” I said, standing up. “We’re locked in. And the ventilation cuts off in three minutes. It fills the room with halon gas to suppress fire. It also sucks out the oxygen.”
“You’re lying!” Jessica yelled.
“Am I?” I pointed to the vents. A hiss had started. “Arthur didn’t build this room to protect money. He built it to trap rats.”
David panicked. He dropped the gun and ran to the window, banging on the steel shutter. “Open it! Sarah, open it!”
“I can’t,” I said calmly. “Only the police can open it from the outside. And the silent alarm went off ten seconds ago.”
“Give me the code!” Jessica lunged at me.
I sidestepped her. She was desperate, sloppy. I pushed her, and she stumbled over the overturned sofa.
“There is no code, Jessica! We wait for the cops. Or we suffocate. Your choice.”
Jessica screamed in frustration. She looked at the gun on the floor. She dove for it.
But David was faster. He kicked it away.
“No shooting!” David yelled. “A gunshot in a sealed room will deafen us and waste oxygen! We sit down! We wait!”
Jessica looked at David, then at me. The fight drained out of her as the air began to thin. She slumped against the mahogany desk.
“I hate you,” she whispered. “I have always hated you.”
“I know,” I said, sitting on the floor, far away from them. “The feeling is mutual.”
Epilogue: The Silence
The police arrived in six minutes. They overrode the system before the oxygen levels became critical, but it was close enough to make David pass out.
They found us sitting in the library: a woman, her ex-boyfriend, and her ex-best friend.
The recording on my phone—the one Jessica had spotted but failed to stop—captured the conspiracy to commit murder, the confession of the prison break plan, and David’s complicity.
David got ten years. Jessica got another twenty added to her sentence, this time in maximum security with no possibility of parole.
I sold Arthur’s estate. I gave the money from the “ledger”—which did exist, but was hidden in a charity trust, not a safe—to a shelter for domestic abuse survivors.
I live in a small house now. I have a dog. A German Shepherd named Arthur.
I don’t date. Not yet.
But last week, I bought a new pair of shoes. Not red stilettos. Running shoes.
Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that you never know when you’ll need to run. And this time, I won’t be hiding under the bed. I’ll be ready.
THE END
