Chapter 8 - Ten Minutes in Hell
The heavy oak front door swung wide open, letting in a gust of freezing winter wind that extinguished the kitchen candle.
Arthur stepped across the threshold, looking entirely out of place in his tailored wool overcoat amidst the rustic cabin decor. His right hand was tucked into his pocket, and his smile was chillingly polite—the smile of a man who owned the world and everything in it.
"Thank you, Clara. You always were the practical one in the family," Arthur said smoothly, not even glancing at his terrified sister-in-law as he stepped further into the room.
He stopped five feet from Sarah, his dark eyes flickering down briefly to the black barrel of the pistol pointed at his midsection, then back up to his wife’s unblinking eyes. He didn't look scared. He looked amused, the same expression he wore when the boy had dropped the cookie on the kitchen floor weeks ago.
"Put the gun down, Sarah," Arthur murmured, taking another slow step forward. "You look ridiculous. You're a suburban housewife, not an assassin. You don't have the stomach to pull that trigger, and even if you did, the police will rule it murder in the first degree, and they'll hand my stepson right back over to me through the state foster system."
He was right, and they both knew it. The system was rigged for men like him. He had the money, the lawyers, and the untouchable social standing.
"You broke his fingers, Arthur," Sarah said, her voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "You broke my son's fingers over a cookie."
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"I taught him discipline," Arthur snapped back, his mask slipping for a split second to reveal the raging narcissist underneath. "And look what you've done. You've blown up our lives over a minor domestic correction. Now, you're going to pack your bags, get in my car, and we are going to go home and fix this narrative before my reputation takes any more damage."
He reached out his hand—the exact same hand that had crushed the boy's fingers in the drawer—and grabbed Sarah’s wrist, forcing the barrel of the gun down toward the floor.
