Chapter 4 - Crimson Fibers
“Arthur! Sir, please, let me explain!” Marcus shouted, struggling slightly against the officer’s firm grip. “This is a massive misunderstanding! My ex-wife is... she’s unstable! She’s trying to ruin me because I asked for a divorce!”
Arthur Vance did not step closer. His sharp gray eyes took in the entire scene: the police tape being unrolled across Marcus’s manicured lawn, the evidence cases being popped open on the porch, and Tiffany standing in the doorway in her cocktail dress, looking panicked.
“Is that true, Detective?” Arthur asked, his voice steady and icy. “Are you raiding one of my senior executives’ homes on Thanksgiving morning over a marital dispute?”
Detective Jack Vance pulled a clear plastic evidence bag from his inner coat pocket and held it up. Inside was a single black designer shoe, scuffed and stained with frozen mud.
“Mr. Vance, your executive and his mother forced his wife out of this house in freezing conditions without a coat or shoes after inflicting physical trauma,” Jack said clearly, ensuring everyone on the porch heard every word. “She was found collapsing at a bus terminal three miles away. Furthermore, we have reason to believe crime scene evidence inside this home is currently being scrubbed.”
Arthur’s face hardened. He looked directly at Marcus with disgust. “We’ll talk about this at the office, Sterling. Assuming you aren't in a jail cell.”
Arthur turned on his heel, took his wife by the arm, and walked back to his Mercedes, ignoring Marcus’s desperate pleas. The luxury sedan reversed down the driveway and sped away.
Inside the house, the forensic team went to work with cold, clinical efficiency.
Sylvia sat on a leather sofa, her arms crossed tight, glaring at the technicians as they sprayed luminol across the pristine hardwood floors and the grand staircase. Tiffany huddled in a corner, nervously checking her phone until an officer confiscated it as potential evidence.
“Detective!” a female technician called out from the hallway near the dining room. “We’ve got a hit.”
Jack and I—who had just arrived at the scene with a legal observer permit granted by the District Attorney’s office—walked down the hallway.
Under the bright blue ultraviolet light cast by the tech’s lamp, the floorboards beneath the freshly vacuumed entryway glowed brightly. A distinct, irregular splatter pattern extended from the base of the staircase across the floor, terminating right at the edge of the large empty space where a rug had recently rested.
“High-velocity blood spatter,” the technician reported, taking rapid photographs. “Someone tried to clean it with bleach and warm water within the last few hours, but they didn't neutralize the hemoglobin. And look here.”
She pointed her light toward the base of the oak staircase. Tiny, torn threads of beige wool were snagged on a protruding brass carpet tack, along with a visible smear of dark crimson.
“Chloe was wearing a beige wool sweater when she was brought to the hospital,” I said, my voice echoing coldly in the hallway. I looked up at Sylvia, who was watching from the doorway, her hands trembling despite her best efforts to maintain a stoic facade.
“That rug,” I said softly, stepping closer to Sylvia. “The five-thousand-dollar Persian rug you mentioned on the phone... the one you claimed my daughter 'destroyed'?”
Sylvia swallowed hard, her mouth working silently for a moment before she found her tongue. “She... she spilled wine! She was drunk and chaotic!”
“My daughter doesn't drink,” I replied, staring straight into Sylvia’s eyes until the older woman looked away. “You dragged her across this floor while she was bleeding from a head wound. Then you rolled up the rug and hid it.”
“Techs, check the garage and the outdoor trash bins,” Jack ordered.
Less than five minutes later, a forensic tech emerged from the garage carrying a heavy black contractor bag. When he unzipped it on the kitchen counter, the contents spilled out: a rolled-up, blood-stained Persian rug, a bucket containing pink-tinted water and bleach, and Chloe’s ruined winter coat, ripped at the seams.
Marcus, standing handcuffed near the kitchen island, went dead pale.
“You missed a spot, Marcus,” I said quietly, turning to face my son-in-law.
“Eleanor... please,” Marcus stammered, his voice cracking as his arrogant composure completely broke down. “Talk to them! Tell them it was an accident! Chloe slipped! We were just trying to calm her down! You know how she gets!”
“I know exactly how my daughter is,” I said, taking a step toward him. “She is methodical. She is gentle. And she is going to watch you lose everything you ever cared about.”
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“Take them both in,” Jack instructed the officers. “Aggravated assault, felony tampering, and obstruction.”
As the officers led Marcus and Sylvia out of the mansion in handcuffs in front of their whispering neighbors, Marcus looked back at me one last time, his eyes wide with confusion and fear. He still didn't understand who I really was. But he was about to find out.
