She was moving toward the hallway. Toward the bedroom.
I looked around desperately. The massive floor-to-ceiling windows offered no fire escape. The master bathroom had no secondary exit. I was trapped.
I grabbed my bag, clutching the heavy brown envelope to my chest, and bolted into the master bathroom, pulling the heavy frosted glass door shut behind me. I backed into the dark, luxurious glass shower enclosure, pressing myself flat against the cold marble tiles, trying to silence my ragged breathing.
Footsteps entered the master bedroom.
"Who the hell was in here?" Isabella muttered.
I heard the closet door slide open. A long, terrifying silence followed.
"Julian," Isabella said loudly, her voice trembling with sudden, explosive rage. She must have seen the open safe.
She walked into the bathroom.
Through the frosted glass of the shower door, I could see the distorted, shadowy outline of her figure standing just a few feet away. She was holding something in her hand. It looked like a heavy brass candlestick from the vanity.
"I know you're in here, Chloe," Isabella said, her voice dropping to a dangerously calm whisper. "The front desk described you perfectly. The entitled, grieving little widow."
I pressed my hands against my mouth, tears of absolute terror blurring my vision.
"You don't understand what you're doing," Isabella continued, stepping closer to the glass. "Arthur was a dinosaur. He was giving millions to a useless charity while the company was stagnating. We just took what we deserved. And then he had to go and threaten us with the police."
She traced her finger along the edge of the frosted glass.
"He was stubborn right to the end. But the dust settles where it's told, Chloe. And you are about to settle permanently."
The handle of the shower door began to slowly turn.
The metallic click of the shower door handle turning echoed like a gunshot in the cavernous marble bathroom. My lungs burned as I held my breath, clutching the thick envelope of evidence to my chest. Through the frosted glass, Isabella’s distorted silhouette loomed closer, raising the heavy brass candlestick.
I had a fraction of a second to make a choice. If I stayed in the corner, she would corner me and bludgeon me to death, staging it as a tragic suicide of a grieving, hysterical woman.
The door began to swing outward.
I didn't wait for her to see me. Using every ounce of adrenaline coursing through my veins, I lunged forward and violently slammed both of my hands flat against the frosted glass door, shoving it back into her with explosive force.
The heavy glass edge struck Isabella square in the chest. She gasped, stumbling backward and losing her footing on the slick tile floor. The brass candlestick flew from her hand, clattering loudly into the porcelain bathtub.
I burst out of the shower. Isabella scrambled to her hands and knees, her face contorted in vicious rage.
"You stupid bitch!" she screamed, lunging for my legs.
I kicked out, the heel of my shoe catching her sharply in the shoulder. She recoiled with a hiss of pain, and I sprinted out of the bathroom. I scrambled through the master bedroom, the brown envelope crushed under my arm, my bag swinging wildly from my shoulder.
"You're not getting out of here!" Isabella yelled from behind me, her footsteps heavy and rapid.
I tore down the hallway and slid into the massive living room. The private elevator was shut. I slammed my hand against the call button, praying to God it hadn't returned to the lobby. The display screen above the doors glowed red: LOBBY.
It would take at least a minute to ascend. A minute I didn't have.
I spun around just as Isabella rounded the corner from the hallway. She looked terrifying. Her immaculate dark hair was wild, her eyes wide with a manic, cornered desperation. She hadn't retrieved the candlestick, but she didn't need it. She was taller, stronger, and running entirely on the fear of spending the rest of her life in federal prison.