Chapter 10 - The Reflection of Guilt
The camera cut sharply away from the door.
It rushed up the length of the hallway, bypassing the wheelchair, bypassing the puddle, bypassing the weeping maid.
It slammed into an extreme close-up of Eleanor’s face.
The mask of absolute authority was completely gone.
Her slicked-back dark hair suddenly looked severe, pulling the skin of her forehead too tight.
Her jaw hung slightly open.
A tiny bead of sweat broke through the heavy foundation on her upper lip.
Her eyes were blown wide open, the whites showing entirely around her dark irises.
She stared down the hall at her son.
She stared at the dropped briefcase.
She saw the exact moment the realization snapped into place behind Arthur's eyes.
Her chest began to heave.
Her fingers, still damp with sweat and the residue of the green liquid, curled inward toward her palms.
She took a half-step backward.
Her heel caught the edge of the Persian rug.
She didn't fall.
She just stood there, trapped perfectly in the center of the frame.
The amber light from the chandelier painted her face in a warm, forgiving glow.
It contrasted violently with the absolute, freezing terror paralyzing her muscles.
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She had built an empire on control.
And she was watching it burn to the ground in a puddle of orange liquid.
