Both of them whipped around.
Melanie was tied to a wooden chair, her cheeks streaked with tears, her hands bound behind her.
And there stood Lucas.
He wore a linen shirt, his sleeves rolled up, holding a stack of burned, charred paper over a metal trash can. The blue legal folder lay open on the desk beside a lighter.
For three seconds, nobody
moved.
The shock on Lucas’s face was magnificent. The color drained from his skin, his smooth, effortless mask shattering into a thousand irrecoverable pieces.
“Anne?” he breathed, stumbling back a step. “How… how are you here?”
“Zurich is lovely this time of year, isn’t it?” I asked, taking a step forward.
His eyes darted frantically toward the window, then to his phone on the desk, then back to me. The master manipulator was finally running out of moves.
“Anne, listen to me,” he started, his voice dropping into that familiar, soothing register. “You don’t understand what’s happening. Melanie is unstable. She—”
“Save it, Lucas,” I interrupted, pulling my father’s revolver from my coat pocket and pointing it directly at his chest.
Melanie gasped. Lucas froze, his arms slowly lifting into the air.
“You thought my father was weak because his mind failed him,” I said, my voice cutting through the
room like a razor. “You thought I was weak because I loved you. You took my inheritance, you tried to steal my life, and you thought you could burn the truth away in a metal trash can.”
“Anne, put the gun down,” he pleaded, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. “We can talk about this. The money—you can have all of it! I won’t touch a cent. Just put it down.”
“The money was never yours,” I whispered. “And neither was I.”
Siren wails echoed in the distant desert air, growing louder, multiplying, closing in from every direction.
Miriam had done her job.
Lucas’s eyes widened in sheer, helpless panic as red and blue lights began to flash against the high windows of the room.
“You called the police?” he breathed, horror creeping into his voice.
