Chapter 3 - The Target Wasn't Tessa
The silence in our living room was so absolute I could hear the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner—a clock Harold had given Brian for his thirtieth birthday. Every swing of the brass pendulum felt like a hammer striking an anvil behind my eyes.
“Give me that,” Deputy Vance said, his voice dropping into a register that brook no refusal. He took the small black notebook from my freezing fingers with gloved hands, his eyes scanning the narrow lines of script. His posture shifted instantly; his shoulders squared, his chin pulled back, and he glanced at the second deputy near the kitchen. “Ray. Call the lieutenant. Tell him to get forensics down here with a search warrant for the entire premises, including the detached garage. We have premeditation.”
“No,” Brian croaked. He stumbled forward, reaching for the book. “Let me see that. Let me look at it! That’s not—my dad is an old man. He forgets things. He keeps weird notes. He’s been writing in those little books since he worked for the railroad!”
“Shut up, Brian!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat with such raw, jagged fury that both deputies froze. “Shut up! Read the words! He wrote my name! He timed my schedule! He sat at our dinner table on Christmas Eve, ate my food, smiled at our daughter, and all the while he had a jar of industrial acid waiting to melt my face off!”
“Nora, he didn't give it to you!” Brian yelled back, tears finally spilling over his red-rimmed eyes, his face twisting into an ugly mask of grief and denial. “He gave it to Tessa! Why would he give it to Tessa if it was meant for you?”
“Because she asked to open it first!” The memory slammed into me with terrifying clarity. “Remember? When we sat down, Harold said, *‘I have something special for the lady of the house.’* He pointed to that box! And Tessa jumped up and said, *‘Can I open it, Grandpa? Can I?’* And what did he do, Brian? Think! What did he do?”
Brian’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. The color drained from his skin until he looked like chalk.
“He didn't stop her,” I whispered, cold tears burning trails down my cheeks. “He didn't say, *‘No, sweetheart, that’s for your mother.’* He just watched her. He looked at me, he took a sip of his coffee, and he told her to try it on her cheeks. He wanted me to watch her suffer because I wouldn't let him control us. Or he wanted to see if it worked. God help me, Brian—he used our nine-year-old child as a test subject!”
“That’s enough,” Deputy Vance commanded, stepping between us. His face was set like concrete. “Mr. Cole, you need to sit on that sofa and keep your hands where I can see them. Mrs. Cole, come with me into the hallway.”
“I need to go to the hospital,” I pleaded, my whole body shaking so violently my teeth were chattering. “I need to see my baby. She’s alone.”
“Your sister-in-law is an RN at Mercy, correct?” Vance asked.
“Yes, Sarah. She’s Brian’s sister.”
“She’s with Tessa, and there are two hospital security officers outside that room right now,” Vance assured me, though his eyes remained dark with concern. “Before you leave this house, I need to know everything you know about Harold Cole’s workshop at his property in Oak Creek. Does he have chemicals there? Does he have access to industrial cleaners?”
“He was an electroplating supervisor for twenty-five years before he retired,” I said, the puzzle pieces clicking together with sickening efficiency. “He kept drums of stuff in his shed. Metal strippers. Rust removers. Sodium hydroxide pellets. Brian helped him move them when he sold the main house two years ago!”
Vance turned his head sharply toward Brian. “Is that true?”
Brian was sitting on the edge of the couch, his head buried in his hands. His shoulders were hitching. “It was just old workshop supplies. Stuff from the plant that they let the retirees take when the foundry closed down. Everybody took buckets of it. For degreasing engines. For cleaning driveways. It was twenty years ago!”
“Where did he move them, Brian?” Vance demanded.
“The cabin,” Brian sobbed into his palms. “The hunting cabin up on Blackwood Ridge. He kept the generator and the tools up there.”
Vance keyed the radio on his shoulder. “Dispatch, this is Unit Four. I need a search team routed to the Blackwood Ridge property registered to Harold E. Cole. Advise responding units that the suspect may be armed and is in possession of hazardous chemical agents. Treat the location as a hot zone.”
The radio squawked back, the dispatcher’s mechanical voice sounding distant and surreal against the backdrop of our ruined Christmas morning.
I turned away from Brian. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't look at his slumping shoulders, his wet eyes, his sudden, pathetic helplessness. For seven years, every time Harold had insulted my parenting, every time Harold had made snide remarks about my family, every time Harold had overstepped our boundaries, Brian had said the same thing: *He’s just from an older generation, Nora. He doesn't mean anything by it. You’re being too sensitive.*
Even when Harold had left Tessa in his idling truck outside a highway tavern for forty-five minutes in freezing November weather, Brian had made excuses. *The game was on, Nora. He was just getting a takeout burger. He kept the heat running.*
Now, our daughter was lying in a hospital bed with layers of her skin burned away because Brian could never bear to tell his father *no*.
“I’m going to the hospital,” I said, my voice dead and cold.
“I’ll drive you,” Brian said, scrambling to his feet, wiping his face with the sleeve of his coat.
“Don't you dare touch me,” I said, backing away from him as if he were covered in the same caustic poison his father had brought through our door. “Don't you come near me. You stay here with the police. You help them tear this house apart. You look at every single thing your father left behind. And when you’re done, Brian, you ask yourself how much of this you let happen.”
May you like
I didn't wait for his answer. I grabbed my purse, my winter coat, and my car keys from the hook by the door, ignoring the younger deputy’s protests. I walked out into the freezing December morning, the air biting into my lungs like shattered glass, and drove toward the hospital through streets lined with cheerful, snow-dusted houses, where other families were still opening their gifts.
***
