PART 3
THE TWENTIETH MINUTE: WHAT MARCUS PULLED FROM HIS JACKET
Marcus laid the object on the kitchen table.
For one terrible second, the room seemed to lose all sound.
It was a small black g/u/n.
Rachel stepped backward so quickly that her heel crushed one of the apples scattered across the floor.
“Marcus,” she whispered, staring at him. “Tell me that isn’t real.”
He did not answer her.
Instead, he placed two fingers on the we/@/pon and slid it toward the forged power of attorney.
The message was unmistakable.
Sign—or face whatever came next.
I remained on one knee beside the counter, one arm pressed carefully against my aching ribs. Every breath felt like a door scraping against broken hinges, but I refused to let either of them see how frightened I was.
Marcus leaned forward.
“Ten minutes.”
Rachel’s face had gone pale. Until that moment, she had treated the morning like a cruel negotiation—a little shouting, a few thre/@ts, perhaps another @ss/@ult if I continued resisting. The sight of the g/u/n changed something in her.
