Chapter 6 - A Razor’s Edge
I rose from the chair. My legs were numb, needles shooting up my calves. I dragged myself to the window overlooking the front lawn, wiping the blood from my knuckles onto my jeans. The sun was dipping toward the tree line, painting the neighborhood in shades of copper and bruised violet. Greg was standing on the front porch, shielding his eyes, looking up at the second story.
I pushed the sash up two inches. The warm summer breeze rushed in, smelling of fresh-cut grass, an agonizing contrast to the suffocating rot inside.
“Greg,” I called down, keeping my voice level, pitched to sound hurried, annoyed.
Greg stepped back on the lawn, looking up. “Hey, John! Saw the garage open. Thought I’d drop off those hedge clippers before you headed out to Johnny’s camp.”
Behind me, I could hear the faint, rhythmic rasp of Meyers’s breathing, the rustle of Natalie’s cotton shirt against the headboard.
“Thanks, Greg,” I said, resting my forearms on the sill to hide the steel cuffs. “Just leave them by the side door. We’re running way behind schedule. Natalie had a migraine, trying to get some sleep before the drive.”
Greg frowned, stepping a foot closer. “You look pale, man. Everything okay?”
“Just exhausted from packing,” I replied, forcing a dry chuckle that felt like swallowing glass. “I’ll catch you next week for a beer, alright? Let Nat sleep.”
Greg nodded, though his brow remained furrowed. “Alright. Safe travels, John.”
He turned and walked down the driveway. I watched him go—every footstep dragging away my last lifeline to ordinary civilization. When his screen door slammed across the street, I pulled the window shut and locked the latch.
I turned back to the room. Meyers hadn't relaxed an inch. Natalie’s face was pale, but her eyes were fixed on the floorboards near the dresser. She had shifted her position. Her right foot was tucked beneath her, toe pointed downward toward the edge of the floor rug.
“He’s gone,” I said, holding my hands out where Meyers could see them. “Now listen to me, Sydney. Sterling’s estate has three private guards from a corporate security firm. They carry semi-automatic carbines. I can’t just walk in and drag an eighty-year-old man out by his collar. Not alone.”
Meyers smiled, a dead, yellow grin. “You don't need to drag him, John. You’re going to tell him the foundation at Blackwood just cracked open. You’re going to tell him the state police found the ledger inside the wall.”
My stomach dropped. “The ledger? You found the documents?”
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“No,” Meyers whispered. “Clara died with them. But Sterling doesn’t know that. He’s lived fourteen years waiting for the other shoe to drop. You tell him the state troopers are en route to seize his safe deposit boxes, and that you came to get him out before the press arrives. He’ll get in your car willingly. Corrupt old men are always cowards when the curtain comes down.”
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