Chapter 7 - The Root of the Rot
Thomas reacted in a heartbeat. He caught my wrist, pulling me behind the heavy oak display cabinet that housed our ceramic vases. His other hand slipped inside his suit jacket, and I heard the unmistakable metallic click of a firearm being unholstered.
"You carry a gun?" I whispered under my breath, my chest heaving.
"I’m an asset recovery specialist who deals with desperate white-collar criminals," he whispered back, his body shielding mine entirely. "Desperate men do stupid things. Stay behind me."
The back door creaked open, the rusted hinges groaning under the pressure. Heavy, hurried footsteps tracked wet gravel across the linoleum of the supply room.
"June?" Graham’s voice called out. It wasn't the suave, velvet tone he used when ordering vintage wine or whispering promises in my ear. It was ragged, strained, and cracked around the edges. "June, baby, are you in here? Look, we had a misunderstanding. Things got out of hand at the hotel."
I gripped the edge of the wooden shelf, my knuckles aching. I wanted to scream at him, but Thomas placed a steady, calming hand over mine, shaking his head slightly. *Wait,* his eyes told me.
"June, I know Lydia called you," Graham continued, his footsteps coming closer, stopping just outside the threshold of the main showroom. "She’s hysterical. She exaggerated everything. I was doing this for us! If we control the deed, we have twenty million dollars on the table! We could have had the wedding of the century in Lake Como next week! You think I wanted to leave you there today?"
A wet, pathetic sob tore from his throat, followed immediately by an angry sniffle. The narcissist's classic retreat: play the victim, then play the savior.
"I had to dodge Vance, June! He's a corporate hitman hired by sharks! He doesn't care about you! Just give me the basement key, let me get the charter, and we can walk out of here together. I still love you. You know I love you."
I couldn't stay quiet. Not anymore.
I stepped out from behind the oak cabinet into the center of the showroom, the train of my lace dress whispering across the floorboards.
"You love me, Graham?" I said, standing tall under the glow of the overhead pendant lamps.
Graham stopped dead in his tracks ten feet away.
He looked terrible. His tuxedo tie was torn off, his white shirt stained with grease and rain, his expensive hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and wild. In his right hand, loosely gripped at his side, was a small black automatic pistol.
When he saw me, a twisted spark of relief flickered across his face.
"June! Thank god," he gasped, taking a step toward me. "You're still in your dress. You look beautiful, baby. Come on, let's just—"
"Did you love me when you told your mother you'd pay off her Fifth Avenue debts with my dead mother’s land?" I asked, my voice cutting through his lies like a scythe. "Did you love me when you planned to leave for Zurich at eight tonight while I was cleaning up empty champagne glasses?"
Graham’s face twisted, the veneer of charm melting away in an instant, replaced by an ugly, bared-teeth sneer.
"You always were too sentimental for your own good, June," he hissed, raising the pistol, aiming it directly at my chest. "You think you're noble because you run a failing flower shop? You're a nobody. Your mother was a nobody. Give me the key to the root cellar, or you won't live to see tomorrow's sunrise."
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"Drop the weapon, Graham," Thomas Vance's voice rang out from the shadows beside the cooler, his gun raised, leveled dead-center at Graham’s forehead.
***
