Tap one. I navigated to user permissions.
Tap two. I selected David and Brittany’s authorized user profiles.
Tap three. Revoke all access. Permanently freeze the three platinum credit cards tied to the master account. Freeze the secondary checking account. Reroute all automatic transfers back to my primary holding.
Execution complete.
Down on the driveway, my father had dropped to his knees to pick up the broom. As he struggled to stand, he finally looked toward the end of the driveway. He froze. The color drained entirely from his already pale, sunken cheeks.
“S-Sammy?” his voice cracked, fragile, broken, and utterly terrified. He looked at me, then looked up at Brittany in absolute panic, as if my mere presence would earn him a beating. “You’re… you’re supposed to be in Chicago.”
Up by the washbasin, my mother gasped, dropping the wet quilt back into the soapy water.
I finally pocketed my phone. The digital guillotine had dropped; they just hadn’t felt the blade sever their necks yet. I stepped onto the gravel, the crunching sound loud in the heavy air.
“I was, Dad,” I said, my voice eerily calm, devoid of any warmth. “But I decided to come down and check on the returns of my six-year investment.”
As I slowly walked up the wooden steps toward the porch, the wood groaning beneath my boots, Brittany let out a sharp, mocking, entirely unbothered laugh. “Sammy? Oh, God, you’re the sister. Well, you need to learn some manners, walking onto my property like a ghost.” She reached into her designer purse and pulled out her phone to call her husband, completely unaware that the very device she was holding was paid for by the woman whose shadow was now falling over her.
Chapter 4: Three Minutes to Midnight
I reached the top of the stairs and stepped onto the shaded porch. Up close, the smell of expensive coconut sunscreen and entitlement was nauseating. Brenda looked mildly uncomfortable, shifting in her wicker chair, but Brittany stood tall, glaring at me with the supreme confidence of a parasite who believed it owned the host.
“Look at you,” Brittany sneered, looking me up and down with blatant disgust. “David said you were a workaholic mess, but I didn’t think you looked like actual garbage. We are busy. Go inside and wash up, and don’t track mud on my hardwood floors.”
“Call the sheriff,” I said. My voice dropped to a terrifying, quiet register that seemed to absorb the ambient noise around us.
Brittany paused, her thumb hovering over her screen. “Excuse me?”
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