Theresa sat on the edge of my sofa as if afraid of being contaminated by my poverty. She held a glass of whiskey in her hands.

I was in a chair opposite, nursing a drink of my own.

She took a sip and twisted her mouth. "Father wanted to keep this... matter in the family. So, when he was ill, he sent me, and not someone from TCorp, to get more details about the expenses from you. That's why I came to see you that day. Afterwards, I told him what I had learned from you. He said he'd discuss it with Thierry.

"I was out that night, and when I returned, police cars and an ambulance were parked in our driveway... Father was dead..." She drank some more. "He had fallen down the grand stair. That's a really long stair ascending from the hall all the way up to the second floor."

I glowered at her, considering to tell her that I knew what a grand staircase is—even though my apartment didn't have one.

But she didn't wait for me to object and continued. "Thierry said he was in his room when he heard a rumbling noise and a yell. He went to investigate and found father at the bottom of the stairs... dead." She took a sip of her drink. Her fingers were white from clasping the glass.

"But, you know...," she continued, "even though father had a cold, he wasn't that weak. Also, he never used that staircase. We have an elevator, or he took the smaller stairs at the back of the house... they have better handrails." She took another sip, then she sat still like a toy whose batteries were low.

"So, you're saying it was..." The words refused to form on my lips, reluctant to leave the world of speculation and enter my mundane apartment. Was she really implying that it was more than just an accident? Was this real? Theresa Thorne sitting on my tired, old sofa telling me a story of murder?

I sniffed the liquid in my glass—an oaky scent. I wasn't much into drinks, and the whiskey bottle had accumulated dust for years. But this seemed like a good time to give it a try.

The bite of the stuff was hot and unruly as it made its way down to my stomach.

She stared at her hands. "I think it was Thierry. He killed him. After father confronted him about the expenses."

"But..." What was I supposed to say at this point? "Who would do that... kill their own father for money?"

"Thierry's not what... people think he is. He's violent and irascible, believe me. And he and father... they weren't on good terms. Dad holds a majority of the shares of TCorp. He could have retired and made him his successor. Thierry had urged him to do so... again and again. But dad had refused, afraid that Thierry would run the company into the ground."

She took a breath. "After the police had left, I confronted Thierry. I accused him of... killing our father. Told him that I knew he used TCorp money for his yacht. I also told him that dad had asked me to get the details from you. He answered that he had nothing to do with our dad's death, and that father had already told him of my getting information from you. But once he had heard the full story, dad had agreed that the expenses were in order." She looked up at me. "He called you an overeager, meddling clerk trying to impress the old man."

"Great, that's how I got fired. Thanks."

She sat in silence, her eyes still on her drink. She probably didn't care—what was a job to her?

I gulped down some more of the fiery liquid and waited for anger to pour into me, eager for its adrenaline to help me face this situation. Yet I got nothing but a warm buzz rising from my intestines up into my confused brain.

Closing my eyes, I wished Theresa to go away, taking her story of patricide with her. I had enough problems of my own, I didn't need hers. She had no business to be here, and I had no role to play in any Thorne family twist. I opened my eyes again—she still was on my sofa.

"You should go to the police," I said.

"I've talked to them. The day after the... incident, they interviewed us once more, everyone living in our house. And I told them about the money and that I believe there had been an argument between my father and Thierry about it. They promised they'd investigate the matter." She looked at me. "Have they ever contacted you about it?"

"No."

"Thought so... You see, Thierry and the chief of the municipal police, they're both members of the same yachting club..." She shrugged. "Yesterday, I called the police detective who's responsible for the investigation and who had been at our house. Detective Shortbitten, Shawn Shortbitten—"

"Shawn Shortbitten? Seriously?" Was she trying to make fun of me? I wasn't in the mood for that.

"Yes, seriously. Talks like someone from England, and he looks the part... Tall, thin, and a long nose to make British sounds with."

I snorted.

"Anyway, I asked him if they had made any progress. He told me they've closed the case. They think it was just an unfortunate accident."

And what did all of this have to do with me?

"Why are you here?" I asked. "And... how did you find me?"

She rubbed her cheek. It was still red where I had hit her.

"I wouldn't have come here if I had anyone better to go to." Her gaze was on the table between us.

Thanks. And I didn't believe her.

She continued. "As I said, the police have closed the case. But I guess they'd have to change their mind and reopen it if I could give them proof that Thierry stole money from TCorp. And you've told me that you could get a... list of all these expenses. So I called your department, and they said you've been... let go."

So that's what she wanted from me. Proof of Thierry's misconduct.

"I know a guy from Human Resources, fortunately," she continued. "I went to see him. Even though I'm not an employee of TCorp, no one would stop me, so I went straight to his office, and he... gave me your address. However, on the way out, I ran into Thierry, in the foyer."

She emptied her glass in one go. "He was with a group of visitors, but he took me aside and asked me what I was doing there. I didn't tell him, and this made him livid. He ordered me to go straight home, and he said we'd have a... good, long talk together.

"After that, I drove here and waited for you."

Lovely. Now she was here, and her angry—and probably murderous—brother was bound to be looking for her.

"Does Thierry have any way to locate you?"

"I don't think so."

"Does your phone share your location with your family?"

She shrugged.

The vision of Thierry locating us stirred the drunken stupor that had settled on my brain. I didn't want that man to barge in here. "Can I see your phone, please? I'd like to check that."

She groped in the coat that was still lying beside her on the sofa, pulled out the device, and handed it over.

"You've got to unlock it." I gave it back to her.

She placed her thumb on its button and turned it towards me.

Her background image was a horse's head, and she had 97 messages on WhatsApp. Why didn't that surprise me? I browsed her icons for apps that might share her location. Fortunately, she had the same brand of device as I, and I knew most of the software she used. Only one was a location sharer. It was disabled.

I handed the device back to her. "Looks good. And you've got about a hundred messages there." Probably her lovers queuing up.

I expected her to dive right into the texts, yet she just looked at me. "Will you help me?"

"How could I do that? Thanks to you..." I pointed a finger at her. "... I'm not working at TCorp anymore."

"You don't have the list here, the list of the expenses?"

No, I didn't. I should have taken a copy home, I knew that, but I didn't need her to tell me that.

It would be great to have it, though. To have proof of Thierry's deed—proof enough to throw a shitstorm at him, a storm so wild that the police wouldn't be able to ignore it.

The clock on the wall showed ten minutes past midnight. I was drained, like the glass I held. "No, I don't have the list." I got up and took the empty glass from her hands. "I don't take that kind of information home. It's... forbidden."

I placed the glasses in the dishwasher. "Look, Miss Thorne, I'm tired, and I've gotta work tomorrow." She didn't need to know that Royal Sandwiches wouldn't open until 11 a.m.

"Call me Theresa, please." She had followed me to the kitchen corner.

"Okay... Theresa." I sighed and faced her. She took a step back. I smirked. "Relax, I don't hit my visitors after midnight... But as you see, I can't help you. Why don't you go home and get some sleep?" I leaned against the fridge in an attempt to steady my wobbly world.

She bit her lips. "I... I'm afraid to go home. Thierry's unpredictable when he's angry."

I couldn't blame her for that, the thought of the man made me feel uneasy. "Okay, so find yourself some nice hotel. I'm sure you can afford that."

"Don't you think he might find me then? Hotels want credit cards, names, and IDs. And Thierry might already have asked the police to look for me."

Was this paranoia? Yet having a brother such as hers was probably bound to do that to you.

"Can't you spend the night at a friend's?" I gestured at the phone she still clasped in her hands. There were 97 messages there, more than I'd get in a month.

She shook her head. "Those with whom I'd want to stay... They're family friends. Thierry knows them all." She pressed her lips together.

Tears were gathering in her eyes, once more threatening to spill over.

"So?" I knew where this was headed, and I didn't like it.

"Couldn't I..." She motioned towards the doors leading off the room we stood in. "... spend the night here?"

"Um..." I pointed at the one on the left. "That's the bathroom," and then at the other one, "... and that's my bedroom." I emphasized the 'my'. "And that's all I have."

A tear explored her cheek.

I sighed and waved at my living room. "There's the sofa, of course..."

———

A/N: A lot of storytelling in dialogue here. Does this work for you, or should I turn Theresa's report into indirect narration?