The Last Drive

I had polished that car every morning for thirty years. Rain or shine, birthday or funeral, I was there at six, waiting by the gate.

That morning, Weston came out first. Not Reginald. Not Constance. Weston, phone in hand, not even looking at me.

"Thorn," he said. "We're done."

I straightened my jacket. "Sir?"

"Don't make this a scene." He finally looked up. "You're a line item. An old, expensive line item. The new service does everything you do, cheaper, with an app."

Behind him, the housekeeper froze mid-step. A gardener pretended to trim a hedge that didn't need trimming.

"Thirty years," I said quietly.

"And I'm sure they were lovely." He held out an envelope. Severance. He didn't even hand it to me himself — a guard took it from his assistant and passed it along, like I might be contagious.

"Mr. Harrowgate—"

"It's done, Thorn. Leave the keys on the hook." He was already walking away, already talking into his phone about a lunch meeting.

I set the keys down. My hands didn't shake. Thirty years teaches you that much, at least — how to keep your hands steady when everything else in you wants to break something.

I walked to the gate on foot for the first time since I'd started working there. Nobody said goodbye.

At home, I didn't turn on the lights. I went straight to the garage, to the workbench, to the loose board behind the paint cans where I'd hidden a small steel box the week I was hired.

Thirty years I'd told myself I'd never need it. Thirty years I'd told myself Reginald Harrowgate was a good man who'd made one bad call under pressure, and that my silence was simply the price of loyalty.

I wiped the dust from the lid with my sleeve.

Weston Harrowgate had just done something his grandfather never did in thirty years.

He'd made me stop protecting them.