The Grieves Method

By Michele M. Taylor

Ethel Grieves knows people don’t really see her. Not past the limp, the freckled nose, the coke-bottle glasses. In the boardroom of Carmichael Holdings, she is just a secretary. The mousey little thing who files reports and pours coffee for men who sit in chairs too expensive to belong to them.

She watches their hands. Watches them grip pens like they’re strangling the truth out of contracts, watches them adjust their silk ties when a deal gets a little too close to dirty. She listens.

The trick is to let them underestimate you.

You walk in like you belong, head down, shoulders in, let the limp lead. It makes you small, makes you harmless. A flaw. A weakness. Something men don’t bother to think about.

So when Ethel is let into the private suite at the Windsor Hotel, the whiskey’s already waiting—ice clinking in the glass like anxious teeth.

“Whiskey,” Ethel says, her voice a rasp over the low hum of the television in the corner.

David Carmichael, heir to a money-laundering empire and owner of a closet so full of skeletons it could furnish an entire graveyard, looks up from the bar.

When he’d accepted this meeting, he probably hadn’t expected her–the quiet little mouse from the secretary pool. Certainly hadn’t expected her to walk in like she owned the place.

He hands her the drink and pours himself two fingers worth.

“Didn’t peg you for a drinker,” he says, shifting on his feet, looking anywhere but at her.

Ethel takes the glass but doesn’t sip. Instead, she leans back against the arm of the couch, letting the moment stretch until it’s uncomfortable.

“I’m a lot of things people don’t think I am,” she says at last, tilting her head.

David swallows hard. He’s nervous. Good. Ethel lets the silence do its work. The thing about men like David—criminal royalty, born into money, into power—is that they don’t know how to sit with silence. They spend their lives filling space with empty words, expensive distractions, voices telling them they’re invincible.

She sets her whiskey down.

“You know,” she continues, “I had a thought today. A curious thing. About your little bank in Belize.”

His breath stutters. It’s barely noticeable, but Ethel is a professional. She catches it. Tucks it away like a souvenir.

“I—”

“Shhh.” She dismisses him with a wave. “We don’t need to do the whole song and dance. I already know.”

She’s already flipping open the folder she’s pulled from her bag. The words on the page tell the sordid truth, every incriminating detail unfurling like a magic trick. A few offshore accounts. Some falsified records. A large sum of money that had vanished and reappeared under a different name, funneled into the wrong hands…

David Carmichael’s hands.

“What is this?” His voice is tight. Controlled.

Ethel adjusts her glasses.

“You’ve been a busy little rat,” she murmurs, tracing a finger down the list.

David’s jaw tightens. “Where did you get that?”

“I don’t ask where my mother gets her diamonds.” She taps a fingernail against the page. “I just know they’re real.”

The color drains from his face. Ethel watches the gears turn in his head, the way men like him always think they can fix things, smooth them over with a little cash and a handshake.

She lets him stew in it for a moment before closing the folder.

“I assume you know what happens next,” she says.

David exhales sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring like a bull in a cage. “If you think you can threaten me—”

Ethel’s laugh is soft. Deliberate. “Oh, David,” she says, standing.

She limps toward him.

“I’m not here to threaten you,” she continues. “I have people for that kind of dirty work.” She stops a breath away, tipping her chin up just enough that he has to look her in the eye. “I need you to fall.”

The weight of her words settles between them. The television buzzes in the corner. David doesn’t move.

“I can bury you,” Ethel whispers. “But where’s the fun in that?”

She turns, retrieves her coat, smooths it over her vest.

“Tomorrow, you will resign. You will sign over all your assets to your dear, charitable sister. You will leave town. Quietly.”

David is silent.

Ethel slides her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Or,” she says, tucking the folder away, “I can do what my family does best.”

She taps her heel against the carpet. The sound is too soft to hear, but Ethel feels the shift in her boot. A blade, ready to spring.

David’s gaze flicks downward, then back to her face. He hesitates. Swallows hard.

He signs the resignation letter before morning.

Ethel orders an espresso at the café across from the Windsor. A single sugar cube sinks slowly, dissolving like a secret. She watches the headlines roll in.

She watches David’s picture pop up on the television behind the barista’s counter. Watches the grainy footage of him slipping out the back door of his own company, face drawn, tie loose.

The woman who slides into the chair across from her has David’s mouth, his sharp cheekbones. But not David’s arrogance.

“Miss Grieves,” she says, crossing her legs. Dark suit, crisp lines. A woman who knows how to clean up a mess.

Ethel takes a sip.

“Miss Carmichael.”

A pause. The soft clink of a spoon against porcelain.

“I assume,” David’s sister says, “that this arrangement is permanent?”

Ethel smiles. She hadn’t planned on stepping back into this world. But some debts don’t die—they just wait for the next of kin. Like precious heirlooms.

“You assume correctly.”

Another pause. A long exhale. Then, the smallest twitch of a smile. “And what do you want in return?”

Ethel sets her cup down. “For now?” She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a knight from a chess set, places it between them on the table. “Let’s see if you play better than your brother.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michele M. Taylor is a fiction writer and seasoned journalist whose work delves into personal and societal challenges. With decades of experience reporting on communities and the people who shape them, she crafts narratives that resonate with humanity and depth. Outside of writing, she enjoys hiking with her dog, Honey, and capturing the harmony between urban landscapes and nature through photography. Her work encourages reflection, connection and meaningful conversations about the world we share.

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