Chapter 9 - The Confrontation on the Roof
The wind off Boston Harbor was a freezing, howling beast by the time we reached the roof of the Harrington Hotel. Vanessa had driven me backward up the maintenance stairs, her knife flashing through the dark until we burst through the heavy iron door into the open winter night.
The city lights below us looked like a million tiny diamonds scattered across a black velvet cloth, but the air at this height was thin and biting, instantly turning my wet slip into a sheet of stiff, frozen fabric against my ribs.
"There's nowhere left to crawl, Chloe," Vanessa shouted over the roar of the wind, her white dress billowing around her legs like a broken sail. She stood near the low concrete parapet, the knife held low against her thigh, her eyes reflecting the red neon glow of the hotel's rooftop sign.
"I don't need to crawl anymore, Vanessa," I said, my voice rising with a strength that surprised even myself. I raised the iron crowbar, my feet planted wide on the gravel surface of the roof. "The police have the folders. They have the manifest from ten years ago. They have your father's signature on the autopsy report. Even if you kill me tonight, you're going to spend the rest of your life in a concrete cell."
"Not if Ethan takes the fall," a voice said from the maintenance door.
Ethan stepped out onto the gravel, his white shirt torn, his face smeared with grease and sweat. He was holding a small, silver revolver he had retrieved from his private locker in the hotel safe. His eyes were wild, darting between his wife and his mistress with the desperate calculation of a drowning man.
"Ethan," Vanessa said, her voice instantly dropping into that sweet, manipulative purr. "Shoot her. We can still claim she was unstable. We can say she came to the roof to jump, and we tried to save her. The police downstairs don't know about the folders yet."
Ethan raised the revolver, the barrel pointing directly at my chest. His finger tightened around the trigger. "She's right, Chloe. I worked too hard for this. Ten years of cleaning up your father's mess. Ten years of smiling at your stupid dinners. I’m not going to prison for an old man who didn't know how to keep his mouth shut."
I looked into my husband's eyes—the eyes I had looked at across the altar ten years ago—and I didn't feel fear anymore. I felt an absolute, liberating hatred.
"You're a bad shot, Ethan," I said softly.
Before he could pull the trigger, a heavy, deafening roar shattered the night sky.
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A State Police helicopter, its high-powered searchlight cutting through the clouds, dropped over the edge of the roof. The white light was blinding, illuminating every scratch on my skin, every stain on the wedding gown, and the silver barrel of the gun in Ethan's hand.
"Ethan Miller! Drop your weapon!" a loudspeaker boomed from the air. "You are completely surrounded!"
