The Aftermath

    “No, officer. I’ve left that information to my wife.”
    “So you’ve no idea where the $270 million are, then, Mr. Brickly?”
    “Precisely,” insisted the sweating, bald, overweight man. “Please let me go home immediately. How are my daughters?”
    “I’m sorry, sir, but I find your story difficult to believe. I’m afraid that I’ll have to keep you a bit longer. Are you positive you’ve no recollection of where that vault is?”
    “Sir. Please. My daughters’ condition is unknown to me, I don’t know where my wife is at this time, and there’s a strange man trying to take my lottery winnings from me. I really don’t have reason to lie to you.”
    “Alright, Mr. Brickly, then that’s enough for today. I expect you back here at 2 PM tomorrow, mind.”
    “Yes sir,” he replied, and nearly skipped out the door -- that is, until his mind drifted back to his daughters, morphing him back into the nervous middle-aged bald man that was Avelbert Brickly.

    “My daughters --” he asked the men bumbling about his disheveled home “-- where are my daughters?”
    “I’m afraid, Mr. Brickly,” said one of his best lawyers, Jessamine Steer, “that Elizabeth is in intensive care, and -- well, Rein is...”
    “Is --?”
    “I’m sorry, Bert.”

The End

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