I moved first.
He was expecting a woman frozen with fear. He wasn’t expecting someone who’d spent twelve years training for exactly this moment.
I stepped inside his reach. I caught his wrist with both hands and twisted hard. He cried out. The syringe hit the floor and rolled under the desk.
Robert was stronger than he looked. He drove his shoulder into me and slammed me back against the bookshelves. Books came crashing down around us. My father’s books. The leather-bound Dickens. The construction manuals. The chess strategy books he’d read to me when I was eight.
I rolled away. I came up swinging and caught him square in the jaw with a right hook.
His head snapped back. Blood ran from his lip.
“You think you can beat me?” he snarled. “I’ve been planning this for thirty years!”
“And I’ve been fighting for my life since I was nineteen,” I said.
He came at me again. I grabbed the brass fireplace poker from the stand beside the hearth and swung it. It connected with his shoulder. He howled.
But he didn’t stop.
He lunged at me with everything he had. We crashed through the French doors behind my father’s desk. Glass exploded around us. We spilled out onto the stone patio in the cold March night.
We rolled across the wet stones. He got a hand around my throat. I drove my knee up into his ribs. He let go. I got on top of him and pinned his arm behind his back the way they teach you at the academy.
He was gasping. So was I. My arm was bleeding from the glass. I didn’t feel it.
Then I heard the sirens.
Faint at first. Then louder. Then everywhere at once. Blue and red lights sweeping across the bare maple tree in the backyard. The same tree where the paper lanterns had hung at my grandmother’s party.
Margaret Chen had tracked my phone. She’d known exactly where I was. And she’d brought half the Providence Police Department with her.
Robert heard them too.
He stopped struggling. He turned his head on the wet stones. For the first time, I saw fear in his face.
“It’s over,” I said. “You’re done.”
He looked up at me. Really looked at me.
Something shifted in his expression. Not remorse. Not regret.
Recognition.
“You’re just like him,” he whispered. “Just like Gregory. You never give up.”
“No,” I said. “I’m better than him. He trusted you. I didn’t.”
Police officers came around the side of the house with their guns drawn. I raised my hands and stepped back.
They put Robert Prescott face down on my father’s patio and cuffed him.
Margaret came running through the gate behind them. She was sixty-two years old, in a raincoat, and she was out of breath.
“You absolute idiot,” she said. Then she hugged me so hard my ribs hurt.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
At TheArchivists, Ethan specializes in uncovering compelling stories that reflect a wide range of human experiences. His work is celebrated for its authenticity, creativity, and ability to spark meaningful conversations, earning him recognition among peers and readers alike.
Passionate about the art of storytelling, Ethan enjoys exploring themes of culture, history, and personal growth, aiming to inspire and inform with every piece he creates. Dedicated to making a lasting impact, Ethan continues to push boundaries in the ever-evolving world of digital content.