Chapter 9 - Speechless
Sheila’s mouth was already opening to scream—a rehearsed, dramatic shriek of simulated horror designed for any listening neighbors.
The scream died in her throat.
The air in the room was not hot. It was cool, crisp, and smelled of faint lavender and clean linen.
And standing in the center of the room, illuminated by the bright morning light streaming through an open maintenance vent, was not a corpse.
It was me.
I stood on two perfectly stable legs, my hair brushed to a glossy shine, my posture straight as a spear. I was holding a crystal tumbler of iced water in my right hand, swirling the cubes slowly.
Behind me, sitting quietly on two folding chairs under the fluorescent utility light, were two men: Special Agent Marcus Cole of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and Julian Vance, holding an open leather portfolio.
Sheila stumbled backward, her designer heels catching on the hardwood floor. Her face went from sun-tanned bronze to an ash-gray so severe she looked like she had suffered an immediate stroke.
"U... Una?" she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Her sunglasses slipped off her nose, clattering onto the floorboards.
Tony stopped dead in his tracks behind her. His Panama hat fell from his limp fingers. His jaw dropped so far his mouth formed a hollow, silent ‘O.’
"Hello, Mother," I said smoothly, taking a slow sip of the iced water. "Did you have a pleasant time in Paris?"
"You're... you're walking," Tony stammered, his eyes bulging as if he were staring at a ghost rising from an open grave. "You... you were paralyzed. The water was shut off. The medication—"
"The medication you instructed Rosie to ruin?" I asked, tilting my head. "The fifteen-thousand-dollar vials you thought would spoil in the heat?"
"Una, sweetheart, what are you saying?!" Sheila suddenly shrieked, her survival instincts kicking into overdrive, her voice pitching up into a hysterical, theatrical warble. "We were worried sick! Rosie told us she was staying with you! We rushed back from Europe the moment she stopped answering our calls! Tony, call an ambulance! She's having a psychotic episode!"
"Save your breath, Sheila," Julian Vance said, standing up from his chair. He produced an iPad and tapped the screen once.
The voice of Sheila Barrett filled the narrow corridor, booming with absolute, digital clarity:
*"Una has been an anchor dragging this family down for five years, Rosie... When we come back in sixty-eight days, whatever happens will be God’s will. You took the five thousand dollars. You keep your mouth shut, or I tell the immigration board who forged your papers."*
Sheila went rigid. The color drained from her lips until they turned a terrifying, bruised blue.
"That's... that's a deepfake," she whispered, her voice cracking. "That isn't real. Tony, tell them that isn't real!"
"It’s very real, Mrs. Barrett," Special Agent Cole said, stepping forward and displaying his gold credentials. "As are the bank records from Zurich showing Tony’s unauthorized transfer of four million dollars from the Barrett Maritime Trust. Rosie Martinez was apprehended at O'Hare Airport three days ago. She gave a full, sworn deposition implicating both of you in attempted first-degree murder, kidnapping, and human trafficking."
Jordan came running around the corner, holding his phone. "Mom! What the hell is going on?! My card just declined for my car payment, and there are six black SUVs blocking the drive—"
He stopped dead when he saw me standing there.
"Una?" he muttered, looking between me and the FBI agent. "Why aren't you in bed?"
May you like
"Because your tuition has expired, Jordan," I said softly, looking my little brother dead in the eyes. "And so has your mother’s luck."
***
