Chapter 7 - THE TIRE IRON AND THE FOG
Vivian didn't freeze.
The eleven months of weakness, the months of feeling like an invalid trapped in her own bed while her husband smiled and fed her poison, had stripped away all remaining fear. What replaced it was a cold, surgical fury.
She unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned over Caleb, pulling the heavy metal iron crowbar he had used to pry open her coffin from beneath the driver’s seat.
She pushed open the damaged passenger door and stepped out into the freezing mud.
The storm lashed against her skin, washing the dry dirt from her burial dress. She stood tall in the middle of the rain-soaked road, holding the crowbar low at her side.
Grant stopped ten feet away. His suit was ruined by the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead. He looked less like the suave Greenwich executive and more like an escaped convict.
"You're a persistent bitch, aren't you?" Grant spat, raising the tire iron in his hand. "You always had to control everything. The trust, the business, the money. You never gave me what I deserved!"
"You didn't deserve anything, Grant," Vivian said, her voice projecting clearly over the storm. "You were a parasitic boy who thought slick hair and a charming smile made up for a complete lack of intellect. My father saw right through you the day I brought you home."
Grant’s face twisted in rage. "Your father is dead! And you're about to join him!"
He lunged forward, swinging the tire iron in a wild, vicious arc aimed directly at her head.
Vivian stepped back into the slick mud, dodging the blow by inches. The heavy iron bar whistled through the empty air.
Using his momentum against him, Vivian stepped forward and swung her crowbar with all the strength left in her arms, striking Grant hard across his right shoulder blade.
Grant yelled out in pain, dropping to one knee in the mud, his tire iron slipping from his grip.
"Grant!" Natalie screamed from the side of the road, backing toward the Range Rover.
Grant growled, clutching his shoulder. He looked up at Vivian, his eyes burning with absolute hatred. "You think you've won? Look at you! You're a corpse walking! Even if you survive tonight, no court will believe a woman who's been declared clinically dead!"
"They won't have to rely on my word, Grant," Vivian said, taking a slow step toward him, pointing the crowbar at his chest. "I recorded our video call. Every word out of your mouth—about Dr. Hale, about the cash payments, about the thallium—was automatically uploaded to my attorney's secure cloud server the second the call ended."
Grant’s eyes widened in sheer horror. The realization hit him like a physical blow.
"No..." he whispered. "No, you didn't..."
"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist answering," Vivian said softly. "Your ego is your greatest weakness, Grant. You just couldn't bear the thought of missing my final performance."
In the distance, down the long stretch of Route 9, the low whine of approaching sirens cut through the sound of the rain.
Red and blue light strobes reflected off the low-hanging fog and wet tree branches. Multiple police cruisers were approaching from both directions at high speed.
Grant looked toward the flashing lights, then back at Vivian. Panic, absolute and uncontrollable, seized his chest.
He scrambled to his feet, turning toward the Range Rover. "Natalie! Get in! Get in the car!"
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He ran to the driver's side, throwing himself into the seat. Natalie scrambled into the passenger side, her hands shaking violently as she pulled the door shut.
Grant slammed the vehicle into reverse, spinning the heavy SUV around on the slick asphalt, tires screaming as he smashed through the wooden highway guardrail and tore off down the dark secondary road leading toward the river.
