Chapter 6 - The Break-In
The afternoon sky had turned the color of bruised iron as heavy storm clouds rolled in from the west.
I parked the Range Rover two houses down from my parents’ sprawling ranch-style home in Worthington, concealing it behind a thick hedge of overgrown arborvitae. The neighborhood was quiet, populated mostly by wealthy retirees and executive families. The street was lined with ancient oaks shedding yellow leaves onto manicured lawns.
In the driveway of the family home sat Eleanor’s pearl-white Lexus.
Beside it was a silver BMW sedan with vanity plates: *DR-S-M*.
Steven Morris. The corrupt physician was inside.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my hands were steady on the steering wheel. I tapped the screen of my iPhone, opening a voice-recording app, and slid the phone into the front breast pocket of my denim jacket, ensuring the microphone was unobstructed.
I didn't use the front walkway. Instead, I cut across the neighbor’s lawn, slipped through the side wooden gate, and entered the backyard.
The house looked dark, the heavy velvet drapes drawn tightly across every window. Growing up, this house had always felt like a museum—Eleanor never allowed clutter, never allowed laughter that was too loud, never allowed anyone to scuff the hardwood floors. But now, it looked like a tomb.
I reached the back patio door. It was locked.
I reached up beneath the rim of the stone birdbath near the patio steps, feeling around the underside until my fingers brushed against cold metal. The spare key. Dad had hidden it there thirty years ago, and Eleanor had never bothered to check.
I slid the key into the lock, turned it smoothly, and pushed the sliding glass door open.
The house smelled stiflingly sweet—a sickening mixture of Eleanor’s expensive lavender room spray, stale air, and the faint, chemical scent of rubbing alcohol.
From down the long hallway leading to the master bedroom, I heard voices.
“He spit out the liquid dose twice, Eleanor,” a man’s voice said—smooth, clinical, irritated. “I had to administer the diazepam via intramuscular injection. His veins are collapsing anyway.”
“Will he stay asleep?” That was Eleanor’s voice, sharp and anxious. “The title officer and the notary will be here at ten tomorrow morning instead of Friday. Mark moved the closing up. The state tax auditors showed up at his office this morning with a subpoena.”
“He won't wake up until tomorrow afternoon,” Morris replied. “He’ll be groggy, pliable. Just guide his hand to sign the conservatorship transfer. As long as he scrawls something that resembles his signature, the notary I arranged will stamp it.”
“Good,” Eleanor sighed. “Once the funds clear into the trust, we can transfer Arthur to the Shady Pines facility in Dayton. They have a closed memory unit. No unmonitored visitors. Jenna won't be able to interfere.”
“What about Jenna?” Morris asked. “Mark said she made a scene last night.”
Eleanor made a scoffing sound. “Jenna is an irrelevant little pest. She has no money, no influence, and no legal standing. Let her cry to her little friends. Once Arthur is in Dayton, I’ll file a restraining order against her for harassing an elder. She won't dare come near us.”
I stood in the darkened hallway, every word capturing crystal-clear on the recording device in my pocket.
The cold rage that had sustained me transformed into something lethal.
I stepped out of the shadows, walked straight down the hallway, and pushed open the master bedroom door with a loud, resounding *bang*.
Eleanor jumped, dropping a silver pill tray onto the carpet.
Dr. Steven Morris spun around, his hand instinctively flying to his jacket pocket where a medical kit lay open on the dresser. He was a balding man in his early fifties, with soft, doughy features and cold, calculating gray eyes.
“Jenna!” Eleanor shrieked, clutching her throat. “What are you doing here?! How did you get in?!”
I didn't look at her.
My eyes went straight to the bed.
My father lay on top of the sheets, dressed in a faded flannel shirt and sweatpants. His breathing was heavy, shallow, and raspy. His left arm was bruised with dark purple hematomas where needles had repeatedly pierced his thin skin.
“You drugged him,” I said, my voice dangerously calm.
Morris quickly stepped in front of the bed, adopting an authoritative medical posture. “Young lady, you need to leave immediately. Your father is under my direct psychiatric and medical care. He suffered a severe manic episode this morning. I had to administer a sedative to prevent him from harming himself.”
“Shut up, Steven,” I said, staring directly into his eyes. “I know about the fraternity kickbacks. I know about the four hundred thousand dollars Mark transferred to your private clinic account last March. And I have the original toxicology logs from Dad’s safety deposit box.”
Morris’s face drained of color until he looked as gray as the storm clouds outside. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“What safety deposit box?” Eleanor demanded, her voice rising an octave into hysterical panic. “What are you talking about?!”
“Box 414 at First National,” I said, turning my gaze onto my mother. “Dad gave Lily the key last night while you were busy starving her over a children’s menu.”
Eleanor stared at me, her eyes wild, her hands beginning to tremble violently. “You… you stole from us! Those are Arthur’s private papers! You have no right!”
“I have every right,” I spat, stepping closer until I was inches from her face. “And I know about Route 315, Eleanor.”
The room went completely, suffocatingly silent.
Even Morris looked over, his eyes wide with confusion, clearly not read-in on that particular horror.
Eleanor’s lips parted. Her skin turned an ash-gray color, the expensive makeup doing nothing to hide the sudden, terrifying realization that her entire world was collapsing.
“You… you don't know anything,” she whispered, but her voice lacked all conviction. It sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete.
“David’s blood is on your hands,” I whispered, tears of pure fury burning my eyes. “You crushed the truck. You forced Dad into silence. You let me bury my husband while you coddled your murderous coward of a son! And then you had the audacity to tell me last night that Mark saved this family?!”
Eleanor lunged forward, her fingers clawing toward my face like talons. “He is my son! I did what any mother would do! Arthur was going to ruin him! David was already dead! Putting Mark in prison wouldn't have brought your pathetic husband back!”
Before her nails could scratch my skin, a loud knock sounded from the front of the house.
Then the front door flew open with a heavy crash.
“Police!” a booming voice roared from the entryway, shaking the very walls of the house. “Nobody move!”
Eleanor froze, her hand still raised in midair.
Down the hallway marched Uncle Marcus, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing an immaculate dark trench coat. Flanking him were two uniformed Columbus police officers, their hands resting on their holstered sidearms, followed by two paramedics pushing a mobile stretcher.
“Marcus?” Eleanor gasped, stumbling back against the dresser. “What… what is this?!”
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“This, Eleanor,” Uncle Marcus said, his eyes drilling into her with the wrath of a righteous executioner, “is an emergency protective custody order signed twenty minutes ago by Judge Callahan. Step away from Arthur right now, or you will be placed in handcuffs on the spot.”
***
