Chapter 4 - The Screen Lit in the Dark
The glowing blue light from Mark’s phone screen illuminated the tense, worried angles of his face as he stared down at the incoming message. He made no move to pull the device from his pocket, his fingers curling tightly against the denim fabric. The silence in the backyard grew suffocatingly dense, broken only by the soft crackle of the designer leather handbag finally disintegrating into ash at the bottom of the grill.
"Read it," Helen commanded, her voice cutting through the quiet like a razor. "Read it out loud to your devoted wife, Mark. Tell her who is waiting for you at the downtown bus terminal with the rest of my silverware."
Clara’s chest heaved as she stared at her husband, the betrayal tasting like copper on the back of her tongue. She took a step toward him, her hands trembling with a sudden, overwhelming rage that eclipsed her earlier panic over the ruined cake and the burning purse.
"Mark. Give me the phone," Clara demanded, her voice dangerously low. "Right now."
"Clara, you're letting her poison your mind," Mark stammered, taking a nervous half-step backward toward the darkened lawn where the remaining guests had retreated in uncomfortable silence. "Your mother has resented me from day one because I took you away from her co-dependent little world. This is a setup."
"A setup?" Helen mocked, stepping closer to the grill and using a long metal poker to lift the charred, smoking remains of the golden double-G logo out of the embers. She dropped the smoking metal onto the stone patio with a sharp, echoing clatter. "You’ve been systematically draining my savings account using my old tablet, Mark. I have the bank statements printed out in the kitchen."
Clara gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. She knew her mother was meticulous with finances, but the mention of bank accounts shattered the last fragile thread of doubt in her mind.
"Show me the phone, Mark," Clara pleaded, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "Please, just show me the screen."
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Mark’s hand twitched toward his pocket, his eyes darting frantically toward the open gate, calculating his odds of outrunning them into the night.
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