His hands tremble. “Our account is empty.”
A red F had been circled. The veins in her old man’s neck throbbed. “Failure is not an option!” Her cheek burned. Sparks danced in her vision. Assault memory. Losing.
It’s the contractor’s fault, all of this. There’s always a way. A little gossip, a few calls. No one notices the bus wheels bouncing.
Her teacher had been the failure. Such a shame. Failure was not an option, brake lines necessary, icy roads sufficient.
“Forget the account. I’ll handle it,” she says. Winning.
Her assistant shivers. A icy chill runs down his spine.
Picture by Airpix.