Chapter 3 - Shards and Shadows
Three days later, the fragile truce they had established was put to a catastrophic test in the mansion's massive, commercial-grade kitchen.
Riley was attempting to unload a top shelf of delicate crystal glassware that the estate housekeeper had insisted on storing out of reach. Standing on a sturdy wooden step stool, her canvas tote bag resting on the counter below, she carefully balanced a stack of six vintage champagne flutes.
A sudden, sharp calf cramp—the direct result of standing on her feet for fourteen hours straight—shot up her leg.
She flinched. The stack wobbled.
“Oh, damn it—” Riley muttered.
The flutes slipped.
For one agonizing second, time seemed to slow down. Six crystal glasses cascaded through the air in a sparkling arc, hitting the marble kitchen floor with a deafening, thunderous explosion of shattering glass that sounded like a fragmentation grenade going off indoors.
Shards of crystal sprayed across the tiles in a glittering radius of destruction.
From the hallway came the heavy, rapid thud of running boots. Frank Dorsey skidded around the corner in a fraction of a second, his right hand instantly disappearing beneath his jacket toward the concealed shoulder holster holding his Sig Sauer.
“What—?” Frank barked, scanning the room for threats.
A second later, the smooth hum of rubber tires announced Jonah’s arrival. He rolled through the double doorway, his dark eyes sweeping the room, taking in the glittering sea of broken glass and Riley standing frozen on the wooden step stool like a gargoyle caught in a trap.
Riley looked down at the glittering devastation around her sneakers, then up at Jonah, her face pale.
“Well,” Riley whispered into the absolute silence of the kitchen, her voice trembling slightly. “On the bright side... I probably won’t need those for New Year's.”
Frank slowly withdrew his hand from his jacket, letting out a long, exhausted breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
Jonah didn’t yell. He didn’t slam his fists on his armrests.
Instead, he slowly rolled forward, his front casters crushing a delicate stem of crystal beneath the rubber tire with a satisfying crunch. He stopped two feet from the mess, tilted his head back, and looked up at Riley.
“How much were those?” Riley asked quietly, bracing herself for the inevitable firing.
May you like
Jonah looked at the shards, then back up at her flushed, panicked face. A slow, terrifyingly genuine smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
“Charge it to the security budget,” Jonah said smoothly. “Frank, get a broom before she turns the kitchen floor into a biohazard.”
