Chapter 10 - Cornered in the Past
The shadow of Helen Gable’s silhouette stretched across the frosted glass window of the archive room door.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, but my feet were glued to the floor. Decades of repressed memories—of sitting across from that exact woman at her cluttered metal desk while she told me girls like me didn't belong in AP classes, of swallowing my pride as she stamped Denied across my financial aid referrals—surged to the surface in a single, boiling wave.
I wasn't seventeen anymore. I wasn't the poor girl standing in the hallway waiting to be dismissed.
The door handle turned.
Marcus grabbed my jacket sleeve, pulling me hard toward the shadows behind a tall metal shelving unit just as Helen pushed the door open and stepped into the room.
She flicked the wall switch on. Fluorescent tubes flickered overhead with a harsh, buzzing hum, flooding the archive room with bright white light.
Helen stood in the doorway, wearing a sharp grey tweed blazer, holding a cup of herbal tea in one hand and her smartphone in the other. She paused, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the room. Something felt off to her—perhaps the slight misalignment of the filing drawer I had left a fraction of an inch open.
She lowered her phone, ending the call, and took two slow, deliberate steps toward the center of the room.
“Who’s here?” Helen called out, her voice sharp and authoritative, carrying that same sickening authority that had haunted my adolescence. “I know someone is in here. Security has been notified.”
She was bluffing. There was no security guard; she was just probing the room.
I looked down at the manila folder clutched tightly in my hand. The physical proof of her financial fraud, the wet-ink forgery, the entire key to dismantling her malicious game—it was right here in my grip.
Marcus caught my eye, shaking his head slightly, mouthing Don't move.
If we stayed hidden, she might check her phone, miss us, and leave the room. But if she checked cabinet four drawer three, she would instantly realize the document was gone, raising the alarm before we could reach Marcus’s car.
Instead of hiding, I stepped out from behind the metal shelving unit into the open aisle of the archive room.
Helen stopped dead in her tracks.
Her breath hitched. For a second, her aging face went completely blank as her brain struggled to reconcile the adult woman standing before her with the teenager she had tried to break seventeen years ago.
Then, her lips curled into a cold, venomous smile.
“Well, well, well,” Helen purred, taking a step forward, her eyes locked onto mine with sadistic pleasure. “Look what the cat dragged in. I wondered how long it would take for the little thrift-store girl to realize she was playing a game she couldn't win.”
“The game is over, Helen,” I said, my voice cutting through the fluorescent hum of the room, steady, powerful, and utterly devoid of fear. I held up the manila folder. “I have the original consulting agreement. I have the digital metadata. And by sunrise, the state attorney general’s office is going to have every piece of evidence they need to put you away for corporate fraud.”
Helen’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, her eyes darting to the folder in my hand. But then she let out a dry, chilling laugh, reaching into her tweed jacket pocket.
“You think a little paper folder frightens me, Maya?” Helen sneered, pulling out her smartphone and tapping the screen. “You might have the agreement, but you don't know who else I’ve already signed contracts with. You think your restaurant group is the only thing I targeted tonight?”
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My blood ran cold. “What are you talking about?”
“Check your phone, sweetie,” Helen whispered, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Your husband just got a very interesting notification about your home address.”
