Chapter 6 - The Retaliation
Brenda Collins lived in a quiet, manicured townhome in the western suburbs—the kind of place bought with silence and corporate loyalty.
When I knocked on her door at two o’clock that afternoon, she answered it wearing a silk loungewear set, holding a glass of white wine. She was forty, with sharp, defensive eyes that immediately widened with panic the moment she recognized me from the press conferences.
She tried to slam the door.
I didn't use violence. I simply jammed the heavy rubber toe of my tactical walking shoe into the jamb, leaned my shoulder against the oak frame, and showed her my old gold shield—retired, yes, but still gleaming with the terrifying weight of thirty-one years of unblemished service.
"Brenda," I said in a calm, conversational voice. "You have two choices. You can let me in, and we can discuss the five counts of conspiracy to commit kidnapping, falsifying state legal documents, and accessory to aggravated domestic torture that the grand jury will be hearing on Thursday morning. Or you can close this door, and I will call Marcus Vance, who is currently parked two blocks away with an arrest warrant and six uniform patrol units to kick this door off its hinges in front of all your lovely neighbors."
Brenda’s lower lip began to tremble. She stepped back, leaving the door wide open.
Ten minutes later, Brenda was sobbing at her kitchen island, clutching a box of tissues, while I sat across from her with my phone recording every word.
"He told me she was having a breakdown!" Brenda wept, her mascara running in black streaks down her cheeks. "He said she was detoxing from opioids! He said the doctor ordered her confined so she wouldn't hurt herself or run into traffic! He told me the power of attorney was just to make sure her medical bills were paid!"
"Did you see the chain around her ankle, Brenda?" I asked softly, mercilessly. "Did you see the bruises on her arms? Did you see the industrial lock on that basement door?"
Brenda buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. "He threatened me, Evelyn! He said if I didn't stamp the papers, he would fire me and implicate me in the transfer accounts he set up under my name! He said nobody would ever believe Claire over him! He said Claire’s mother was an old, washed-up cop who didn't have the stomach to fight him!"
"Well," I said, leaning forward until Brenda was forced to look into my eyes. "He was wrong about Claire's mother. Now, here is what you are going to do."
I dictated the terms with cold, mathematical precision. Brenda would sign a full, sworn affidavit detailing how Grant coerced her into notarizing the forged power of attorney. She would provide the direct encryption keys to Grant’s secondary corporate email server where the Aegis Horizon wire transfers were documented. And she would do it within the next two hours, directly to the district attorney’s special investigations unit.
"If you do that," I told her, "I will personally speak to the prosecutor about a cooperating witness agreement. If you don't, I will ensure you spend the next ten to fifteen years in a state correctional facility for women, sleeping on a mattress much like the one Claire slept on for the past fourteen days."
Brenda was nodding frantically before I even finished the sentence.
I stepped out of the townhouse, feeling the crisp autumn wind bite my cheeks. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Marcus.
"Evelyn," he said, his voice taut with urgency. "We have a problem at St. Jude's."
My heart, which had been steady all morning, gave a sharp, painful jolt. "What happened?"
"Grant’s lawyer filed an emergency protective injunction against *you*," Marcus said. "They presented a motion claiming you are an emotionally compromised party who illegally broke into their marital residence, assaulted his client with a crowbar, and took Claire without legal medical authorization. Judge Callahan just signed an emergency order granting Grant temporary medical guardianship until a formal hearing next week."
"Callahan is an accessory," I snarled, walking rapidly toward my sedan.
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"It gets worse," Marcus said. "Grant just pulled up to St. Jude’s with two private security guards and a private medical transport ambulance. He’s attempting to transfer Claire out of state to a private psychiatric facility in Delaware right now."
***
