The Final Confrontation
I shoved the study door open. It crashed against the wall. A single dim desk lamp lit the room. James froze, back to the door, shoulders rigid. He clutched a phone, screen glowing. I walked in. Footsteps echoed in the stillness. He turned slowly. The lamp light carved half his face. Tear tracks, sunken eyes, agony threatening to rupture his skin. He looked at me—terror, despair.
My gaze locked onto his other hand. The hand gripping the phone, knuckles white. Call screen visible. Contact name: a single, icy letter: [V] . V. Vivian. No words needed. Evidence, lies, disguises—all laid bare in the harsh light. James opened his mouth, a strangled sound escaping. No words. He just looked at me. Eyes that once held warmth now held only fathomless pain and… fragile expectancy.
The Difficult Truth
"It’s Vivian," he rasped, voice like sandpaper. His fingers slackened. The phone thudded onto the thick rug. "Her daughter," he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, "Lucy was my…" He flinched at the word, stopped, closed his eyes, sucked in a breath, reopening them filled with crimson despair, "…late wife." Each word hammered my chest. The "confidante’s" truth was brutally cold. "The transfers?" My voice was unnervingly calm. "After Lucy passed… Vivian collapsed." James stared at the rug, voice barely audible. "Severe anxiety disorder… insomnia… doctors, medication… expensive.
Too proud. Refused Lucy’s trust fund, other family help." A bitter smile. "Only let me help. Said I was her last link." "So you hid it," I said, heart clenched by an invisible fist. "Monthly. Ten thousand." "I had no other way!" He jerked his head up. "Couldn’t watch her fall apart! Lucy’s last words… 'Take care of Mom for me.'" Voice broke. Hands clawed his hair. "Every meeting," shattered words, "…was at the cemetery. Said 'business trip' so you wouldn’t worry… wouldn’t mind." He forced the final words out, steeped in helplessness and self-loathing.
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I shoved the study door open. It crashed against the wall. A single dim desk lamp lit the room. James froze, back to the door, shoulders rigid. He clutched a phone, screen glowing. I walked in. Footsteps echoed in the stillness. He turned slowly. The lamp light carved half his face. Tear tracks, sunken eyes, agony threatening to rupture his skin. He looked at me—terror, despair.
My gaze locked onto his other hand. The hand gripping the phone, knuckles white. Call screen visible. Contact name: a single, icy letter: [V] . V. Vivian. No words needed. Evidence, lies, disguises—all laid bare in the harsh light. James opened his mouth, a strangled sound escaping. No words. He just looked at me. Eyes that once held warmth now held only fathomless pain and… fragile expectancy.
The Difficult Truth
"It’s Vivian," he rasped, voice like sandpaper. His fingers slackened. The phone thudded onto the thick rug. "Her daughter," he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, "Lucy was my…" He flinched at the word, stopped, closed his eyes, sucked in a breath, reopening them filled with crimson despair, "…late wife." Each word hammered my chest. The "confidante’s" truth was brutally cold. "The transfers?" My voice was unnervingly calm. "After Lucy passed… Vivian collapsed." James stared at the rug, voice barely audible. "Severe anxiety disorder… insomnia… doctors, medication… expensive.
Too proud. Refused Lucy’s trust fund, other family help." A bitter smile. "Only let me help. Said I was her last link." "So you hid it," I said, heart clenched by an invisible fist. "Monthly. Ten thousand." "I had no other way!" He jerked his head up. "Couldn’t watch her fall apart! Lucy’s last words… 'Take care of Mom for me.'" Voice broke. Hands clawed his hair. "Every meeting," shattered words, "…was at the cemetery. Said 'business trip' so you wouldn’t worry… wouldn’t mind." He forced the final words out, steeped in helplessness and self-loathing.
NEXT >>
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