Chapter 5
CHAPTER 4 — The Cornered Rats
The living room was so quiet I could hear the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
Tom’s hands began to shake so violently that the papers slipped from his grasp, scattering across the glass table.
Beatrice stared at the highlighted bank routing numbers, her mouth opening and closing in silent horror.
"This..." Tom choked out, his eyes wide with pure panic. "Where did you get this?"
"I own one of the top cybersecurity and forensic accounting firms on the East Coast," I said casually, sitting down in the armchair opposite them.
"You thought you were marrying a quiet little secretary, Tom."
"You married a shark."
"And you just bled in my water."
Beatrice suddenly leaped to her feet, her face contorted with desperation.
"It's forged!" she screamed. "You made this up! No one will believe you!"
"The FBI will," I corrected her.
"I have the IP logs showing the transfers came from your home computer, Beatrice."
"I have the digital signatures."
"Wire fraud carries a penalty of up to twenty years in federal prison."
Tom fell back onto the sofa, grabbing his hair, hyperventilating.
"Maya, please," he begged, the arrogant abuser completely evaporating, leaving only a pathetic, terrified boy.
"I can put it back! I just need time! If you give this to my boss, they'll ruin me!"
"You ruined yourself," I said coldly.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
"Here is how the rest of your pathetic life is going to go."
"Tomorrow morning, at nine AM, you are going to my lawyer's office."
"You are going to sign an annulment."
"You are going to sign over your equity in the two cars we bought together."
"You are going to waive any and all rights to spousal support."
"You are going to walk away with exactly the clothes on your back."
Beatrice’s eyes flashed with a sudden, vicious malice.
She realized they were cornered, and like a rabid animal, she lashed out.
She grabbed the heavy, solid brass candlestick from the mantelpiece and lunged at me.
"I'll kill you!" she shrieked.
She aimed for my head, swinging with all the hysterical strength of a mother trying to save her criminal son.
I didn't even stand up.
As she swung, I shifted my weight, caught her wrist with my left hand, and drove the palm of my right hand directly upward into her elbow joint.
CRACK.
The sound of her joint dislocating echoed like a gunshot.
Beatrice screamed, dropping the brass candlestick, collapsing onto the floor, clutching her ruined arm in agony.
Tom screamed too, scrambling backward over the sofa, trying to get away from me.
I stood up slowly, looking down at the woman writhing on my rug.
"I warned you," I whispered.
"I told you I would stop being polite."
I looked over at Tom, who was curled in a fetal position against the wall.
May you like
"Nine AM tomorrow, Tom," I said, my voice perfectly level.
"Don't be late."
