If you don't shoot that monster by midnight, Arthur, I'll clear out your pension and fire you on the spot, my boss, Richard Callahan, barked across the estate desk.
The next morning, the rain arrived, a cold, steady drizzle that matched the gloom in my soul. I was still reeling from the discovery of the insurance fraud and Chloe’s conflicted reaction.
I was crossing the staff quarters courtyard, heading towards my own small office to clear out a few personal effects, when I saw Julian and Brenda Callahan. They were waiting for me, strategically positioned near the entrance, flanked by six groundskeepers who were gathered for their morning briefing.
It was clearly a calculated ambush.
Julian stepped forward, a sympathetic-yet-paternal expression plastered on his face. Brenda stood beside him, her arms crossed, a triumphant gleam in her eyes.
“Arthur, we need to talk,” Julian began, his voice carrying just enough to be heard by the groundskeepers.
I stopped, bracing myself. This wasn’t going to be a private conversation.
“About what?” I asked, my voice flat.
Brenda scoffed. “About your… decline, Arthur. It’s becoming quite obvious, wouldn’t you say?” She gestured broadly towards my general direction, as if pointing out a visible stain.
Julian lowered his voice slightly, but still ensured it was audible. “We’re worried about you, Arthur. Richard shared some concerns. You’ve been… forgetting things. Important things.”
One of the younger groundskeepers shifted uncomfortably, avoiding my gaze. The others looked down at their boots.
“Forgetting what, Julian?” I challenged him, my eyes hard.
“Daily routines, Arthur,” Brenda interjected, her voice rising in pitch. “Protecting wild animals over company assets. Delusions, really. It’s a sad thing to see, after all these years.”
Julian pulled a folded document from his coat pocket. It was a formal-looking letter.
“We’ve drafted a resignation letter for you, Arthur,” he said, holding it out. “It’s a clean exit. Preserves your partial pension. Richard is being very generous, considering the circumstances.”
My gaze dropped to the letter. A resignation. Not termination, but a forced resignation. It would make it seem as though I willingly walked away, admitting my “decline.”
“Sign it, Arthur,” Brenda urged, stepping closer. “It’s for the best. For everyone.” Her tone was anything but compassionate. It was a demand.
I looked from Julian’s feigned concern to Brenda’s smug satisfaction, then to the uneasy faces of the groundskeepers. They were trying to publicly discredit me, to paint me as senile and delusional, so no one would believe me when the truth eventually came out.
“I won’t sign it,” I said, my voice cutting through the rain.
Julian’s brow furrowed. “Arthur, don’t be foolish. This is your best option.”
“My best option,” I repeated, “is to expose the truth.”
Brenda let out a small, derisive laugh. “The ‘truth’? You sound exactly like your employer described. Delusional.”
I ignored them. I turned and walked away, the rain plastering my shirt to my back. Their words, meant to chip away at my resolve, only solidified it. I had to prove I wasn’t senile. I had to prove Richard was a fraud.
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