Chapter 4 - The Ticking Clock
My father stepped further into the study, waving the leather ledger in the air.
“You were always so naive, Clare,” he mocked.
“I copied his office keys five years ago.”
“I have known about this pathetic little safe since before he even got sick.”
Marcus stepped between me and my father, shielding me.
“Stealing evidence in an active property dispute is a serious felony,” Marcus warned him.
My father just laughed and walked over to the stone fireplace.
“It is only a felony if the evidence actually exists.”
He grabbed a heavy iron lighter from the mantle and flicked it open.
A bright orange flame illuminated his cruel, greedy face.
“No!” I screamed, lunging forward.
Marcus held me back, knowing my father was dangerous and unpredictable.
“If you burn that ledger, you destroy the only memory of your own parents,” I sobbed.
“My parents were stubborn fools who left their fortune to an ungrateful brat,” he spat.
He lowered the flame toward the corner of the leather book.
“I am going to burn this book, and then I am going to sell this house to a luxury developer.”
“You have five minutes before the police arrive to drag you out in handcuffs.”
He held the flame against the leather until the edges began to curl and smoke.
“Stop!” Marcus shouted, raising his phone in the air.
“I have been recording this entire conversation, including your direct confession to theft.”
My father froze, staring at the glowing red recording dot on Marcus’s screen.
“If you burn that book, I will send this audio file directly to the FBI,” Marcus threatened.
My father’s arrogant smile slowly faded into a tight grimace.
He blew out the lighter and shoved the smoking ledger inside his jacket.
“You think you are so smart, lawyer,” my father hissed.
“But audio recordings can easily be deleted.”
He snapped his fingers loudly, signaling someone in the hallway.
Two massive men in dark work clothes stepped into the study, cracking their knuckles.
These were not regular movers.
They were hired muscle.
“Take his phone, and throw them both out on the front lawn,” my father ordered coldly.
The larger man charged forward and grabbed Marcus by the throat.
The other man grabbed my arms, twisting them painfully behind my back.
I struggled and kicked, but the man was incredibly strong.
He dragged me backward out of the study and down the long hallway.
I watched in horror as the first man ripped the phone out of Marcus’s hand.
The man threw the expensive phone onto the hardwood floor and stomped on it with his heavy boot.
The glass shattered into a hundred pieces, completely destroying our only leverage.
My father smiled from the doorway as they violently shoved us out the front door.
I tumbled onto the hard concrete of the driveway, scraping my knees badly.
The heavy front door slammed shut, and the deadbolt locked with a loud, terrifying click.
I sat on the cold concrete, realizing I had just lost absolutely everything.
But Marcus slowly sat up beside me, wiping a drop of blood from his lip, and started to smile.
“Why are you smiling?” I asked, completely devastated.
May you like
Marcus reached up and pulled a small, silver tie clip from his collar.
“Because I never use my phone for primary audio recording,” he whispered, pressing a tiny button on the clip.
