Chapter 3 - Red and Blue in the Driveway
The April night air was frigid, biting into the fresh laceration across my cheek as Officer Miller’s cruiser pulled into my quiet suburban cul-de-sac.
Normally, Sycamore Crest was the kind of neighborhood where the loudest sound after nine o'clock was the hum of automatic lawn sprinklers. Tonight, the street was bathed in a rotating kaleidoscope of violent crimson and strobing blue lights.
Two squad cars were parked nose-to-nose, blocking the mouth of my driveway. Behind them sat Derek’s rusted Dodge Ram, its bed loaded with children’s bicycles, flat-screen televisions, and garbage bags full of clothes.
Standing on the curb, looking immaculate in an Italian wool trench coat despite the midnight hour, was Richard Vance. My attorney didn’t look like a man pulled out of an Easter family gathering; he looked like a predator who had smelled blood from ten miles away and arrived to finish the kill.
“Clara,” Richard said, walking over the moment Miller opened my door. His sharp eyes scanned the white gauze taped across my cheekbone. “The hospital took forensic photos?”
“Eight stitches,” I said, my voice steady. “Coded as a blunt-force laceration caused by an impact weapon. The ER doctor retained the glass fragments they pulled from my skin in an evidence container for chain of custody.”
“Good,” Richard said without an ounce of hesitation. “Because while you were in triage, your father was arrested at his country club home. He’s currently sitting in the county holding cell, screaming that his daughter is an ungrateful sociopath. He hasn’t realized yet that the state picked up the assault charge. Even if you wanted to drop it—which you won't—he isn't getting out on bail until his arraignment Tuesday morning.”
Before I could answer, a piercing shriek split the night.
The front doors of my house flew open. Bethany stormed down the stone walkway, her bleached-blonde hair disheveled, her face flushed with hysterical rage. Behind her, two junior officers held Derek by his wrists, pulling his arms behind his back while he shouted obscenities.
“Clara!” Bethany wailed, pointing an accusatory finger at me as I stood beside the cruiser. “Tell these pigs to get their hands off my husband! Tell them! What is wrong with you?! Look at your niece! Look at what you’re doing to my babies!”
From the open doorway, Derek’s mother—who had apparently been brought along to serve as an impromptu babysitter—held my trembling niece and nephew back.
“You broke into my home, Bethany,” I said, stepping forward into the wash of the squad car headlights. My voice didn't waver. Not a fraction.
“We didn't break in! Mom gave us the key!” Bethany shrieked, struggling against an officer who stepped in to keep her six feet away from me. “Mom said this house was family property! You make three hundred thousand dollars a year at your firm! You live here all by yourself with three empty bedrooms, and my kids are sleeping in a moldy two-bedroom rental! Dad told you at dinner—family shares! You don't need this place!”
Richard Vance stepped into the light, pulling a crisp manila folder from his leather briefcase.
“Mrs. Miller,” Richard’s voice cut through the air like a scalpel, calm and devastatingly lethal. “My name is Richard Vance. I represent Ms. Donovan. For your information, your mother does not hold, nor has she ever held, any legal title, equitable interest, or tenancy rights to this parcel. Furthermore, Officer Miller has already verified that your husband used an illegal master key obtained via corporate theft from Eleanor Donovan’s former employer.”
Bethany stopped thrashing. Her gaze darted between Richard’s icy suit and the cold, unyielding stare of the police officers. “Corporate... what? No. Dad said—”
“Your father is currently behind bars at the Central Detention Facility for felony aggravated assault with a deadly weapon,” Richard interrupted smoothly. “And right now, officers are carrying that angle grinder and the contents of Clara’s opened safe down her stairs.”
Derek roared from the back of the patrol car: “Shut up, Bethany! Don't say another word! Call your mother! Call Eleanor!”
“Eleanor can’t help you, Derek,” Officer Miller said, walking toward him holding an evidence bag. Through the clear plastic, I could see what Derek had managed to pry out of my floor safe before the door came down.
It wasn't jewelry. It wasn't cash.
It was my original deed, my passport, my social security card, and three blank signature affidavits.
Bethany’s jaw dropped. She looked at me, her eyes widening not with remorse, but with the sudden, terrifying realization that the game had flipped.
“You’re arresting me?” Bethany whimpered, her voice suddenly shrinking into the fragile little-girl pitch she always used to make our father hand over his wallet. “Clara... please. I’m your sister. We have the same blood. You can’t let them take me to jail. Who’s going to watch Chloe? Who’s going to watch Liam?”
“You should have thought about your children before you brought them to a burglary,” I replied.
May you like
I turned my back on her screams as the handcuffs clicked shut around her wrists.
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