Chapter 5 - The Reflection in the Glass
I stepped back into the shadows of the storage unit as the footsteps drew closer. Hannah moved with me, her hand sliding quietly into her jacket pocket.
A figure appeared in the doorway, blocking the harsh overhead light.
It wasn't Thatcher.
Claudine stood there wearing her immaculate ivory blouse, her expression entirely calm. She wasn't carrying keys or a coffee cup. In her hand was a single manila envelope, unsealed. She stopped just outside the threshold, looking at the open roll-up door without a trace of surprise.
"I wondered how long it would take you to find this," Claudine said, her voice smooth and conversational, as if we were discussing a floral arrangement for a wedding.
I stepped out from behind the metal cabinet, keeping my posture straight. "You've been poisoning my tea for six months."
"Poisoning is such a dramatic word," Claudine replied, leaning slightly against the doorframe. "It’s a mild sedative. Just enough to keep you foggy in the mornings so you wouldn't notice the discrepancies in the inventory logs. You were burning yourself out anyway, working seventy hours a week. We simply helped nature along."
"You forged my signature on the restructuring papers," I said.
"Thatcher handled the signature," she corrected lightly, a faint smile touching her lips. "He’s quite good with a stylus when he puts his mind to it. But honestly, darling, you made it so easy. You trusted everyone. You thought everyone shared your wholesome little vision of building a creative community."
She stepped one pace further into the unit, her eyes locking onto mine with a cold, analytical appraisal.
"You think you can walk out of here and go to the police," Claudine continued, her tone dropping into something much quieter and sharper. "Go ahead. Look at those medical records on the desk. Every prescription was picked up using your ID card and signed for in your handwriting. To any outside observer, you’re a stressed-out entrepreneur suffering a severe mental breakdown, liquidating her assets to check into a wellness retreat."
She tapped the manila envelope against her thigh.
"Thatcher is ready to sign the spousal support waiver tonight. If you make a scene, we release the medical file to every corporate client and wedding planner in North Carolina. Your reputation, your studio, and your credibility will be gone before the end of the week."
I looked at her—at the woman I had welcomed into my business, given equity to, and trusted with the keys to my professional life. Every piece of the puzzle clicked into place, not as a sudden explosion of violence, but as a calculated, methodical trap built out of everyday interactions and false smiles.
"You think Thatcher is going to stay with you after this?" I asked quietly.
Claudine’s smile flickered—just for a fraction of a second—before she recovered her composure. "Thatcher loves comfort. And I know how to provide it."
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out.
May you like
A text message from Thatcher lit up the screen:
Where are you? I’m home, and the safe in our closet is wide open.
