“No.” I grit my teeth. “You’re not going to tie me up. I won’t let you.”

Monica laughs. “Oh, I think you will.”

Monica rifles around in her purse hanging off the edge of the chair. My mouth drops open when she pulls out a handgun. A gun. She doesn’t point it at me, but just its presence makes me freeze. It looks so ominous.

“We had a firing range right by my house growing up,” she says casually. “I’m actually quite a good shot. Not that I’d need to be at this distance.”

I look between Monica and Gertie, my heart pounding. If she shoots me, it’s over. I have no chance.

Monica sifts through her purse again and pulls out a piece of white stationery. She slides it across the dining table so I can see it. I stare at the words on the page, written in a perfect replication of my handwriting done by someone who’s had a year of studying my handwritten notes and practicing. The signature is perfect—only a handwriting expert would be able to tell the difference, and I doubt one would ever be called in.

It’s a full confession to everything. My drug problem that got out of control. Murdering my former boss when she wouldn’t go along with my blackmail scheme. Culminating in an apology to Sam, in which I give him my blessing to go on with his life.

“Your last words.” She smiles at me and I shiver. “It’s poetic, isn’t it? Aren’t you glad that’s how you’ll be remembered?”

I nod at the gun in her hand. “If you shoot me, that will mess up your suicide plan, won’t it? If you shoot me to death in my own home, how will you explain that?”

“Oh, I’m prepared.” She rests her right hand protectively on the gun. “I’ve still got access to your work email account. This morning you sent me an email inviting me over to ‘talk.’ And then when I arrived, you pulled a gun on me because jealousy had gotten the better of you. There was a struggle and… well, unfortunately, I got the better of you. And poor Gertie here was a witness to the whole thing.”

“Yeah, but how would I have a gun?”

She doesn’t bat an eye. “I don’t know—maybe you needed it around because you had so many dealers coming to your apartment. Who knows? It’s unregistered—probably stolen. You probably bought it on the black market.”

I’m speechless. She’s thought of everything.