Chapter 23 - The Face in the Strobe
Scott stood in the doorway, framed by the flashing crimson strobe of the emergency lights.
He didn't look like the polished, immaculate hedge-fund executive who had stood in our pristine kitchen three weeks ago, tossing a box of adult diapers onto my lap while sneering that my body was ruined and repulsive.
His tailored Italian suit jacket was torn at the shoulder, soaked in sweat and rain. His hair was plastered wildly across his forehead. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils dilated, burning with a frantic, unhinged mania. In his right hand, he wasn't holding a weapon—he was holding a heavy steel crowbar he had ripped from the emergency fire cabinet in the stairwell.
He took one step into the room, his chest heaving, his gaze locking instantly onto the open safe behind the portrait.
"Out of my way," he snarled, taking another step forward.
Then his eyes drifted to the left.
The crimson strobe flashed once, illuminating Margaret Vance’s pale, aristocratic face.
Scott stopped dead in his tracks. The crowbar dipped an inch toward the floor. His mouth fell open, his lower lip trembling uncontrollably.
"No," Scott whispered, his voice turning into a child's whimper. "No, no, no... you're dead. The Swiss doctor... I paid him four hundred thousand dollars in un-traceable crypto. You died of heart failure three days ago."
"Dr. Steiner was arrested at Zurich Airport yesterday afternoon, Scott," Margaret said, her voice dripping with venom. "He gave up your bank records, your forged power of attorney, and your private medical directives in exchange for not spending the rest of his life in a Swiss federal penitentiary."
"You old bitch," Scott spat, rage instantly obliterating his terror. He raised the crowbar, his knuckles turning white. "You should have stayed in that bed. You gave everything to Elena! Everything! I built this firm! I made Apex what it is! Your pathetic husband left behind a dying regional bank, and I turned it into a two-hundred-million-dollar fund!"
"You turned it into a money-laundering vessel for your debts," Brandon interjected, stepping out from behind the desk, positioning himself squarely between Scott and the three women. "I pulled the forensic audit this afternoon, Scott. You lost sixty million dollars on high-risk short positions six months ago. You’ve been running a Ponzi scheme across four different dummy accounts just to keep the payroll clear."
Scott turned his crazed glare toward Brandon. "You? My best man? The guy I pulled out of regional compliance and gave a seven-figure salary? You stabbed me in the back for her?" He jerked the crowbar toward me. "For a woman who couldn't even walk to the bathroom without leaving a mess on my hardwood floors?"
The insult didn't hurt. It didn't even sting. Hearing it now, in this dark, flashing room, it sounded so incredibly small, so pathetic, that it made me realize just how powerless Scott had always been. His entire masculine pride, his entire sense of superiority, was built on kicking people when they were physically unable to stand.
"You're pathetic, Scott," I said, stepping past Brandon so I was looking Scott dead in his eyes.
"Lauren, step back!" Brandon warned.
"No," I said, holding Scott’s gaze. "Look at you. You're holding a piece of scrap metal in the dark, begging for scraps from a woman you tried to bury alive. You think you humiliated me? You think making fun of my body after I brought your three children into this world made you strong?"
"Shut up!" Scott screamed, raising the crowbar over his shoulder.
"You insured our babies for five million dollars because you were broke," I said, my voice echoing over the wailing siren. "You wanted them dead because you couldn't pay your margin calls. You are a coward, Scott. You have always been a coward."
With a roar of pure, unadulterated fury, Scott lunged forward, swinging the crowbar straight toward my head.
Brandon moved to intercept him, but someone else was faster.
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Margaret Vance stepped forward with shocking speed, swinging her heavy cherrywood cane like a baseball bat. The solid brass tip connected directly with Scott’s right kneecap with a sickening, hollow *CRACK*.
***
