The rhythmic scuff of leather loafers against bloody marble was the only clock left in the penthouse. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. The two guards worked in absolute, chilling silence, dragging Razak’s heavy body by his ankles down the long white corridor. His canvas jacket acted like a mop, leaving a wide, glistening smear of crimson that caught the cold reflection of the midday Manhattan sun. Behind them, Uncle George’s stiffening hand still stuck out from beneath a blue plastic tarp, his gold signet ring catching the light one last time before the heavy double doors of the sunroom swung shut, locking them away in the dark.
I didn't move from the wooden chair by the desk. My fingers were glued around the cold barrel of the gold fountain pen, the fresh declaration of dependency sitting right i
