Chapter 3 - The Wolves at the Door
Detective Marcus Miller arrived at St. Catherine’s within thirty minutes. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late forties, wearing an unassuming charcoal coat and carrying a worn leather notebook. Behind him was Sarah Vance, my closest friend since college and one of the most relentless estate litigators in the county. I had sent Sarah a single text message three words long: They tried it.
We met in a private conference room down the corridor from pediatric ICU. Outside the glass window, two uniformed security officers stood post at the threshold of Katie's room under strict orders from the attending physician: no visitors without Amanda Vance-Cole's express written authorization.
"Tell me everything, Amanda," Detective Miller said, setting his coffee cup on the laminate table. "Start from yesterday morning."
I didn't leave out a single syllable. I recounted Katie's excitement about gymnastics, the sudden call from the ER at 4:17 p.m., Barbara’s monstrous phone call demanding I cook her birthday dinner, Andrew’s suspicious absence, and Katie’s terrifying eyewitness account of being shoved into the lane.
"The driver of the van came forward last night," Detective Miller said, leaning forward. "He was hysterical. A young delivery driver. He swore on his life that a girl suddenly stumbled directly into his blind spot from the passenger side of a parked gray crossover. He said the crossover sped off before he could even get the license plate."
"Andrew drives a silver Honda CR-V," I whispered, cold sweat prickling my neck. "The passenger side bumper has a dent he told me happened in a supermarket parking lot three weeks ago."
"We’re pulling the traffic cameras from Maple Avenue and Fourteenth right now," Miller said, jotting down notes. "If his vehicle was parked at that curb at 4:15, he’s finished. But there's another angle here, Amanda. What did he say about paperwork?"
Sarah opened her briefcase and pulled out a manila file. Her jaw was set in a tight, furious line. "I did a preliminary title search on your father's property the second Amanda texted me. Amanda, you inherited the Maple Ridge property outright when your dad passed four years ago. It’s held in a separate testamentary trust. Andrew has zero legal claim to that home."
"Barbara told me last night that Andrew has contributed to it for years," I said, remembering her sneering tone over the phone. "She said if I didn't come cook her dinner, I would have nowhere to live."
"That’s complete garbage," Sarah snapped. "Unless—" She stopped, her eyes darkening. "Unless someone filed a forged quitclaim deed or an unauthorized power of attorney."
Before Sarah could finish her thought, a commotion erupted outside in the hallway.
"You have no right to bar me from seeing my daughter!"
Andrew’s voice echoed down the sterile corridor, laden with manufactured indignation. "I am her father! I pay the insurance in this family! Step aside before I have this entire hospital administration fired!"
I stood up so fast my plastic chair scraped loudly against the floor. Detective Miller stood with me, placing a calm, heavy hand on my shoulder. "Let me handle the approach, Amanda. Stay right behind me."
We stepped out into the hallway.
Andrew was standing by the ICU nurses' station, his hair disheveled, wearing a designer cashmere sweater that had cost more than my monthly car payment. Beside him stood Barbara.
She looked entirely out of place in an intensive care unit, dressed in a royal purple silk pantsuit, diamond drop earrings catching the fluorescent light, and carrying a crocodile-skin handbag. Her arms were folded across her chest, her lips pursed in deep, theatrical distaste as if the very air of the public hospital offended her sensibilities.
"There she is!" Barbara pointed a manicured, French-tipped finger straight at my face. "There’s the ungrateful little martyr! Andrew, tell the guards to move! We have an appointment with the notary at eleven o'clock, and this little girl is keeping us waiting!"
The waiting room went dead silent. Nurses paused with medicine trays. An elderly couple waiting near the elevator stared in open shock.
Andrew turned, spotting me. His face instantly shifted from anger to an oily, rehearsed tenderness. He hurried toward me with open arms. "Amanda, honey! Thank God. The nurses are being completely insane. They won't even let me see Katie. How is she? Is she awake?"
I took two deliberate steps backward, slipping completely out of his reach.
His hands hung awkwardly in midair. A flash of irritation flickered in his brown eyes before he smoothed it over with a practiced frown. "Amanda? What's wrong with you?"
"Don't touch me," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, but vibrating with so much venom that he actually recoiled.
Barbara scoffed loudly, stepping up beside her son. "Oh, don't start the dramatic performance now, Amanda. You caused enough trouble last night hanging up on me. We let you play the devoted mother for twelve hours. The doctors said she's stable. Andrew took off work, I had to reschedule my hair stylist, and we have crucial financial documents to execute. Sign the papers, let Andrew submit them to the lender, and then you can sit by this bed until your heart's content."
"What documents, Barbara?" I asked, looking her dead in the eye.
Barbara reached into her handbag and produced a thick legal envelope. "The refinancing agreement. The one that transfers the Maple Ridge house into the Moretti-Cole Trust. The family needs liquidity, Amanda. Andrew's firm had an unexpected audit, and my bridge loan for the club equity is due on Friday. We are saving you from bankruptcy."
Sarah stepped forward from behind Detective Miller, her eyes glittering like shards of ice. "Mrs. Cole, I suggest you put that envelope away before you commit a third-degree felony in front of a sworn detective."
Barbara’s gaze flicked to Sarah, then down to Detective Miller’s gold badge pinned to his belt. For the first time, a hairline fracture appeared in her impenetrable arrogance.
"And who are you?" Barbara demanded, though her voice lacked its earlier bite.
"I am Amanda’s legal counsel," Sarah said. "And this is Detective Marcus Miller from the North Precinct Major Crimes Division."
Andrew's face drained of color. The faint rosiness in his cheeks vanished into an ashen, sickly gray. His throat bobbed violently as he swallowed.
"Detective?" Andrew stammered, his eyes darting toward the elevators. "Why... why is Major Crimes here for a simple hit-and-run?"
Detective Miller took a slow step forward, towering over my husband. "Mr. Cole, we have a few questions regarding your whereabouts yesterday between 3:45 p.m. and 4:30 p.m. Specifically, why your vehicle was seen parked at the corner of Maple and Fourteenth."
Barbara scoffed, trying to regain control. "That's ridiculous! Andrew was at my house helping me select flower arrangements for my birthday party! He was with me all afternoon!"
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Detective Miller didn't even look at her. His gaze remained locked onto Andrew’s terrified eyes.
"Is that your statement, Mr. Cole? Because your daughter just woke up. And she had quite a story to tell us about who pushed her into the street."
