Page 187 of Yearn
From inside came the sound of drawers being yanked open, objects clattering to the floor.
"Yes, Dominic, how can I help you?" Spencer's voice was alert despite the late hour. Good lawyers never really slept.
"I need you at the house. Now." I kept my voice low and steady. "He's snorted coke and acting crazy. I think he’s about to get a gun. I had her call the cops. I want him out tonight."
"We'll be there. Same address?"
"Yes." I hung up and slipped the phone back into my pocket.
The office door was ajar.
Through the gap, I could hear Scott's ragged breathing, the scrape of metal against wood.
I pushed the door open.
Scott stood behind his desk, hunched over an open briefcase. A small handgun lay on the desk surface—compact, probably a .38 or similar. His hands trembled as he fumbled with bullets, trying to load the cylinder through his drugged up haze.
The bullets kept slipping through his fingers.
The desk was a mess.
Papers scattered.
A coffee mug on its side.
And there—a small puddle of vomit near the edge, acrid smell mixing with the sweat and fear saturating the room.
His skin had gone gray-green, sweat pouring down his face in rivulets.
He looked up with his eyes wild and unfocused. "Get back!"
More bullets tumbled from his grip, bouncing across the desk and hitting the floor with small metallic pings.
I analyzed the variables: Pupils still dilated from cocaine. Sweat indicating elevated heart rate. Fine motor control severelycompromised. Emotional state: volatile but deteriorating into despair rather than rage.
Probability he'd successfully load and fire: 30%, maybe 35%.
Probability he'd accidentally shoot himself: significantly higher.
"Get out. . .of my. . .house. You are no longer. . .a tenant. . .here!" Foamy saliva dripped from the edge of his mouth. “F-fucked. . .my wife. . .m-mine. . .”
I stayed in the doorway, hands visible at my sides.
Calm.
Controlled.
“G-get out!”
"You can keep this house, Scott. I'm about to buy her a new house."
His eyes widened, pupils dilating further—shock on top of pharmaceutical chaos.
"This house is nothing, just old memories. J and Oliver will forget about this place one day. They'll have to be reminded when they're teenagers that they ever lived here." I took a step forward. "And they'll definitely forget about you. I plan to make sure of that."
"No. You. . .can’t do that. . .No." Although still most likely empty, he lifted the gun with shaking hands and tried to point it at me.
Hell no!
