Chapter 5 - Into the Lion’s Den
The Sanders estate operated under the assumption that wealth equaled security. The back doors were unlocked; the staff had retired to the detached guest quarters for the night; and the family was entirely occupied on the lawn, drinking fifty-year-old scotch and blowing cigar smoke into the North Carolina night.
I walked softly down the parquet hallway, past the oil paintings of hunting hounds and colonial ancestors Uncle Greg had purchased at estate auctions to invent a pedigree he didn't possess.
At the end of the hall was Uncle Greg’s private study.
I slipped inside and closed the heavy mahogany door behind me, leaving it cracked just a fraction of an inch so I could hear footsteps on the hardwood.
The study smelled of leather and stale tobacco. Sitting on the massive executive desk was the command center for tomorrow’s reception: a silver MacBook Pro hooked up to a high-speed external hard drive, alongside several labeled thumb drives and a printout of the master run-of-show schedule.
Beside the laptop was a clipboard titled: *Chloe & Julian Wedding – Master AV Cues.*
I flipped through the pages. There it was, scheduled for 3:45 PM, right after the first dance and the father-daughter toast:
*Cue 14: Family Montage & Chloe’s Special "Tribute" to Marissa.*
Underneath the cue, written in Chloe’s loopy, juvenile handwriting in pink ink, was a note: *Make sure volume is at 100% when Marissa starts crying in the video! Everyone needs to hear the splat!*
A cold, razor-sharp smile touched my lips.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out two items: an encrypted SanDisk solid-state flash drive, and my personal smartphone.
I woke the MacBook screen. It was password-protected. But Uncle Greg was sixty-two years old, arrogant, and notoriously lazy with digital security. I looked at the framed photo on his desk: his vintage 1968 Shelby GT500. I typed in *Shelby1968!*
The desktop unlocked instantly.
I clicked open the presentation software. The file was titled *Chloe_Julian_Forever_Final.mp4*.
I opened the timeline. The first eight minutes were a standard, saccharine slideshow of Chloe’s childhood: Chloe riding ponies, Chloe on private jets, Chloe in her high school cheerleading uniform, Chloe meeting Julian at a fraternity formal.
Then, at minute 8:14, the slide cut to a bold, hot-pink title card: *A SPECIAL TRIBUTE TO OUR FAVORITE AUNTIE MARISSA!*
Following the card was the grainy, horrific footage from ten years ago: the blast of rotten eggs, my tear-streaked face, and the hidden-camera clip of me undressing in the bridal suite. Chloe had even added comedic sound effects—cartoon slide whistles, laughing laugh-tracks, and an animated frying pan sizzling an egg across my chest.
She had spent hours polishing it. She was proud of it. She intended to broadcast it in front of Arthur and Eleanor Montgomery, the state senators, the business titans, and our nine-year-old son.
"You really shouldn't have kept the original, Chloe," I whispered into the quiet room.
I plugged my SanDisk drive into the USB-C port.
I didn't delete the title card. The title card was perfect. *A SPECIAL TRIBUTE TO OUR FAVORITE AUNTIE MARISSA!* would remain exactly where it was.
What I did was delete the sixteen-second clip of me changing clothes and replaced it with a six-minute, high-definition master file that had been sitting in my safe for ten years.
The file began with the timestamp: *October 11, 2014 – 11:42 AM.*
The footage, captured cleanly from Elena’s wide-angle vanity lens, showed the bridal dressing room before I arrived.
On the video, the door swung open. Beverly Sanders walked in, holding a set of master keys, followed closely by twelve-year-old Chloe, who was carrying two commercial confetti cannons loaded with putrid, sulfur-soaked eggs.
*“Make sure you aim right at her chest, Chloe,”* Beverly’s voice boomed through the speakers with crystalline clarity. *“Right as she walks through the doors. She spent five thousand dollars on that ridiculous silk gown. We need to teach that little middle-class climber her place before she thinks she’s Richard’s equal.”*
*“Can I trigger the camera in the vent while she’s changing?”* twelve-year-old Chloe asked, giggling maliciously.
*“Of course you can, darling,”* Beverly replied, laughing as she patted Chloe’s cheek. *“Everyone will think it’s a riot. Richard won’t do a thing. He’s terrified of me.”*
Then came the centerpiece.
On the tape, Beverly walked out into the corridor to act as a lookout. Twelve-year-old Chloe walked over to the velvet gift table in the corner of the room. She unzipped my personal satin pouch, pulled out my grandmother’s two platinum antique diamond rings—valued at thirty-two thousand dollars, which Beverly had claimed were "lost in the post-wedding chaos"—and slipped them directly into her pocket.
*“Nobody will ever suspect me,”* young Chloe chuckled to herself on the recording, turning directly toward the camera without realizing it was running. *“They’ll be too busy laughing at the Omelet Queen!”*
I exported the revised master file, overwriting the original *Chloe_Julian_Forever_Final.mp4*.
I then opened the terminal command line of the MacBook, locked the permissions on the file so it could not be deleted or edited without an administrator override password that only I possessed, and ejected my drive.
Just as I pulled the drive from the port, I heard the heavy, limestone patio door click shut down the hall. Footsteps were approaching.
I didn't panic. I calmly closed the laptop lid, slipped my drive into my bra, picked up a leather-bound book from the shelf—*A History of Cabarrus County*—and turned toward the door.
The door swung open. It was Tyler, Chloe’s twenty-four-year-old brother, holding a half-empty beer bottle.
"What are you doing in here?" Tyler asked, squinting suspiciously through bloodshot eyes.
"Looking for something to read," I said smoothly, holding up the heavy volume. "Matthew couldn't sleep. The history of the local mills seemed boring enough to put him out."
Tyler stared at me for three long seconds, swayed slightly, and then let out a dismissive snort. "Whatever. Don't touch Dad’s cigars. He counts them."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Tyler," I said.
I walked past him into the hallway, my shoulder brushing his, feeling the cool, rectangular weight of the flash drive resting against my ribs.
Tomorrow, the Sanders family wanted a show.
May you like
I was going to make sure they got a masterpiece.
***
