Pendelton looks at her. He sees the leather. He sees the diamonds. He sees the swell of her stomach under the silk—the future he tried to destroy.
She doesn't look scared. She looks like a judgment.
She walks over to the table. She places a small, black object next to the brandy glass.
A gun.
My spare Glock. One bullet in the chamber.
"You suggested I send her away," I say to Pendelton. "You suggested I make her 'comfortable'."
I look at the gun.
"My wife is very merciful," I lie. "She convinced me not to drag you out to the Pine Barrens and bury you alive."
Ivy smiles. It is a cold, sharp smile.
"We prefer a cleaner solution," she says. Her voice is steady. "A resignation."
Pendelton looks at the gun. Then he looks at me.
"You want me to..."
"I want you to make a choice," I say. "Option A: You walk out of here. The Feds are waiting in the lobby. The press is waiting on the sidewalk. You spend the next six months in a media circus that destroys whatever is left of your reputation, and then you die in a cell."
I gesture to the gun.
"Option B: You take the honorable exit. The investigation stops. Your wife gets the life insurance. Your name remains... acceptable."
Pendelton stares at the weapon. He is shaking violently now.
"You’re a monster," he whispers.
"I know," I say. "I learned from the best."
I take Ivy’s hand.
"Come, Mrs. Vane," I say. "The air in here is stale."
We turn and walk away.
We don't look back. We walk out of the library, down the grand staircase, and across the marble foyer.
The doorman opens the door for us, his eyes averted.
We step out onto Fifth Avenue. The night air is crisp, cold, and clean.
We walk a block in silence.
Then, behind us, muffled by the heavy stone walls of the Century Club, we hear it.
BANG.
A single shot.
I stop. I look at Ivy.
She doesn't flinch. She squeezes my hand.
