Chapter 3 - Unraveling the Threads
Z
The cold air in the basement felt suddenly suffocating. I pressed my back against the damp concrete wall beneath the workbench, holding the flashlight against my chest to kill the beam. Darkness swallowed me, save for the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the small, dirty basement window near the ceiling.
"You always were predictable, Ash," Matthew’s voice drifted down the stairs, calm, rhythmic, and chillingly detachment. The sound of his dress shoes clicking against the wooden steps echoed in the enclosed space like a countdown. "Whenever you got overwhelmed as a kid, you’d run to your dad's old workshop. You did it in eighth grade when you lost the spelling bee. You did it in high school when your dad had his first stroke. And you did it today."
I held my breath, clutching the manila folder and the cassette tape tightly against my ribs. My heart hammered violently against my chest, so loud I was convinced he could hear it.
"I saw your car parked down the block," he continued, taking another slow step down. "You left your phone on the back seat. That wasn't very smart, Ashley. I read Chloe's text messages. She really is a meddling nuisance, isn't she? I knew I should have pushed harder to get her out of your life during senior year."
He reached the bottom of the stairs. I saw the beam of his heavy duty flashlight sweep across the room, illuminating dusty shelves, rusted paint cans, and spiderwebs.
"I know you came home early today," Matthew said softly, his footsteps crunching on the loose gravel near the furnace. "I know you overheard me talking to my father. You probably think I’m a monster, don't you? You probably think every kiss, every date, every anniversary was a lie."
He paused, the light beam sweeping past my hiding spot, missing me by inches.
"It wasn't all a lie, Ash," he murmured, his voice softening into that familiar, tender tone he always used when I was upset—the tone that had comforted me for years. "I really do care about you. You're soft. You're gentle. You need someone to take care of you, just like your father took care of you. But your dad was greedy. He was sitting on fifty million dollars worth of commercial waterfront property, letting it rot while local businesses struggled. My father and I... we have a vision for this city. And you were always going to inherit it anyway."
"So you decided to trap me?" I spoke up from the shadows, stepping out from behind the workbench into the beam of his flashlight. I didn't recognize my own voice; it was hard, sharp, and stripped of all fear.
Matthew flinched slightly, surprised by my sudden appearance, but he quickly regained his composure. A slow, arrogant smile spread across his handsome face. He lowered the flashlight slightly, allowing me to see his eyes. There was no warmth there anymore—only cold, sharp ambition.
"It wasn't a trap, Ashley," he said smoothly, taking a half-step forward. "It was an arrangement. Your father was deep in debt to the wrong people years ago. My father bailed him out. In exchange, your dad promised that our families would merge their holdings through us. But then your dad got greedy. He tried to alter the trust terms right before he died to exclude my family. He was going to leave you penniless under the guise of an 'independent management board'."
"Liar," I hissed, tightening my grip on the manila folder. "My father left a letter. He knew what you and your father were trying to do. He died of a heart attack two weeks after writing it!"
Matthew’s eyes narrowed slightly, a dangerous glint flickering across his pupils. "Heart attack. Right. That’s what the medical examiner said, wasn't it?"
A terrible, icy knife plunged into my gut. "What did you say?"
"Your dad was old, sick, and stressed," Matthew shrugged, stepping closer. "All it took was a little extra push. A argument over the trust deeds late at night, a missing nitroglycerin bottle... nature simply took its course. We didn't murder him, Ashley, if that's what you're thinking. We just... allowed circumstances to resolve themselves."
The horror of his words hit me like a physical blow. They had let my father die. They had stood by and watched him gasp for air, withholding his medication so they could gain control over his legacy through me.
"You absolute monster," I gasped, tears finally spilling over my lashes, hot and bitter.
"Hand over the folder, Ashley," Matthew said, extending his hand, his voice dropping all pretense of affection. "And the tape. My father’s lawyers have already finalized the development permits with the city council. The waterfront deal closes on Friday. All I need is your signature on the trustee release forms. You sign them, you walk away with ten million dollars in cash, a comfortable life, and we get a quiet, clean divorce. You can move to California. You can paint, open a bookstore, do whatever silly little dreams you used to talk about."
"And if I don't sign?" I demanded, taking a step backward toward the small basement window.
"Then things get complicated," Matthew said coldly. "People who are grieving and unstable sometimes do unpredictable things. You left work early, you vanished, you drove out to an abandoned building in the middle of a storm. If you were to... have an accident down here, as the sole surviving heir, your estate would automatically pass to your legal husband. Me."
The cold brutality of his logic left no room for doubt. He had planned every angle. He had spent fifteen years positioning himself as my protector so that when the trap finally sprung, I wouldn't even realize I was inside it.
"You think I'm still that weak little girl who stared at her desk when the teacher asked a question," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"You've always been that girl, Ash," Matthew said with a dismissive sigh. "You almost ran for student council. You almost went to NYU. You almost became someone. But you always backed down. Because you're afraid of conflict. You're afraid of being alone."
"Not anymore," I said.
Before he could react, I swung the heavy steel flashlight I was holding with all the strength in my body, striking the glass light fixture hanging above his head. The bulb shattered instantly, raining sharp glass down on him and plunging the basement into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
Matthew swore loudly as glass showered his shoulders. "Ashley!"
I didn't wait. I turned toward the small basement window, grabbed an old wooden crate beneath it, climbed up, and smashed the dirty glass pane with the heel of my boot. Rain and cold air rushed into the dark basement. I kicked out the remaining shards of glass, pushed my folder and the tape through the frame onto the muddy grass outside, and pulled myself up through the tight opening.
"Ashley! Stop!" Matthew’s voice roared from the darkness behind me, followed by the sound of heavy boots scrambling over concrete.
I scraped my arms and waist against the jagged wooden frame, but the adrenaline rushing through my veins drowned out the pain. I dragged myself out onto the wet lawn, grabbed the manila folder from the mud, and sprinted into the blinding rain.
My car was three blocks away. I ran down the dark, slick sidewalk, my heart thumping against my ribs, the wind howling around me. Every shadow seemed to stretch toward me; every sound of the storm sounded like Matthew's footsteps behind me.
I reached my car, threw myself into the driver's seat, locked the doors, and jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life just as a pair of headlights flashed in my rearview mirror—a black SUV turning fast onto the street.
May you like
Matthew.
I slammed my foot on the accelerator, tires screeching against the wet pavement as I sped into the night, leaving my past, my marriage, and my ignorance behind me forever.
