Chapter 8 - The Answer
Derek didn't answer. He couldn't.
He slowly stood up from the head of the table—the very chair he had kicked away from Arthur twenty minutes earlier—and let out a hollow, disbelieving breath.
"What do you mean, frozen?" Derek muttered to himself, his thumb hovering over the dial button for his corporate attorney, a man named Henderson whose retainer cost more than Arthur’s annual pension.
He hit dial.
The phone went straight to voicemail. Not even a ring. Just the cold, mechanical click of an automated carrier message: The subscriber you have dialed is currently unavailable.
Derek tried Henderson’s direct cell. Same result.
"Derek James Cole, I am asking you a question!" Emily stepped around the corner of the table, her voice suddenly ringing with a terrifying, crystal-clear authority that made Alan and Marjorie recoil in their seats. "What are those alerts? What did you do with my father’s money?"
"Your father’s money has nothing to do with this!" Derek snapped back, his voice cracking with panic as he glared at his wife. "It’s a corporate liquidity glitch! The bank’s automated clearinghouse is doing holiday batch processing!"
"Don't lie to me!" Emily screamed, the dam finally breaking after months of silent terror and gaslighting. "For six months you’ve been telling me the bridge loan was secured! For six months you’ve been making me lie to my father every time he asked about his retirement account! You stole from him, didn't you? You took his pension to buy this house!"
"Keep your voice down!" Derek hissed, lunging forward and grabbing Emily by the wrist. "You don't know what you’re talking about! Shut your mouth in front of my parents!"
Thwack.
It wasn't a slap from Emily. It was something heavier.
Noah—quiet, twelve-year-old Noah—had grabbed a heavy silver gravy boat from the side table and slammed it down onto the mahogany surface with a force that rattled every glass in the room.
"Get your hands off Mom," Noah said, his voice shaking with a cold, terrifying fury that didn't belong to a child.
Derek froze, his hand still clamped around Emily’s wrist. He looked down at his son, then around the table at his parents, who were sitting rigidly in their chairs, suddenly looking very old, very fragile, and very much like people who realized their son’s Ponzi scheme had finally collapsed.
On the other end of the open-plan kitchen, the wall-mounted intercom panel—which was tied to the smart-home security system at the front door—let out a crisp, electronic chime.
A calm, automated synthetic voice echoed through the house:
EXTERNAL ASSET FREEZE CONFIRMED. MANDATORY AUDIT INITIATED FOR PARCEL 412 ELM STREET, WESTFIELD, NJ.
Nobody moved.
Derek slowly released Emily’s wrist. He sank back down into the wooden chair—the exact chair he had kicked away from Arthur twenty minutes earlier—as if his knees had suddenly turned to water.
And for the first time that night, Derek Cole looked truly, deeply afraid.
Emily pulled her wrist back, rubbing the red mark left by Derek’s fingers. She looked toward the front hallway, her eyes welling with fresh, hot tears.
May you like
"Dad," she whispered into the empty air.
But the front door was already closed, and the heavy engine of the old Buick LeSabre was already purring softly in the snowy New Jersey night.
Related Stories
