Chapter 2 - The Red Siren and The Unmasking
The fluorescent lights of the big-box store seemed to buzz with a harsh, violent frequency as David struggled against Wyatt’s grip.
For three years, I had known David as an immaculate force—a man whose starched collars never wrinkled, whose tone never faltered, and whose temper was a slow, calculated suffocator behind closed doors. But under the heavy fluorescent tubes of the checkout lane, held aloft by a seven-foot store manager with grease-stained sleeves and hands like iron vices, David looked small. Wild. Unraveled.
“Put me down!” David shrieked, his voice losing its polished baritone and soaring into a shrill, undignified register. “Do you have any idea who I am? I am the Senior Vice President of Operations at Meridian Financial! I will buy this entire strip mall and fire you by sunrise!”
Wyatt didn’t yell back. He didn’t choke David, nor did he slam him into the floor. He simply lowered him until David’s expensive leather loafers hit the linoleum, keeping a single, colossal hand clamped over David’s neck and shoulder joints in a restraint hold so precise it looked effortless.
“I don’t care if you’re the King of England, pal,” Wyatt said softly, his deep voice carrying through the dead silent store. “You just put a pregnant woman on the floor in front of twenty witnesses and three 4K security cameras.”
I squeezed my eyes shut as another wave of sharp, tearing heat radiated across my lower abdomen. “The baby...” I gasped, my voice barely a thread. “Wyatt... please... something’s wrong.”
The shift in Wyatt’s eyes was instantaneous. The cold fury he held for David melted into immediate, protective concern. He glanced at the terrified cashier. “Brenda! Where is that ambulance?”
“Two minutes out!” Brenda called back, her hands trembling so hard she could barely hold the landline receiver. “The dispatcher says to keep her still!”
David, sensing a distraction, tried to twist out of Wyatt’s grip. “Sarah, get up off the floor and stop acting like a dramatic child!” he hissed at me, his eyes darting frantically toward the front glass doors where red and blue lights were already painting the night rain in rhythmic splashes. “You tripped! Tell them you tripped!”
“She didn’t trip,” a voice broke in from the gathering crowd.
An elderly woman pushed her way to the front. She was wearing a faded floral cardigan and holding a basket of canned soup, but her eyes were fixed on David with a disgust so potent it made him flinch.
“I watched him,” the woman said, her voice echoing clearly. She turned her phone toward David—the screen glowing with a recorded video feed. “I started filming the second he began screaming at her over the price of that blanket. I have him shoving her into the register on video. Clear as day.”
David’s face drained of every ounce of color. The polished skin turned an ashen grey. “Delete that,” he whispered, stepping toward her. “Delete that right now or I’ll sue you for defamation!”
Wyatt shifted his weight, stepping firmly back between David and the woman. “You’re not suing anyone today, David.”
David froze. His eyes snapped up to Wyatt’s face. “How do you know my name? I never gave you my name.”
A heavy silence settled over the checkout area. The distant sound of sirens swelled, bouncing off the damp brick exterior of the building.
Wyatt looked down at David, his blue eyes hard as flint. “Because this isn’t the first town you’ve done this in, Mr. Vance. Or should I call you David Miller? Or David Rothschild? Which alias are you using on your tax returns this year?”
My heart stopped beating for a microsecond. The pain in my stomach vanished beneath a wave of icy confusion. Vance? Miller?
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David stepped back, his mouth open, a rare expression of pure, unadulterated panic washing across his features. “You... you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve been waiting eighteen months for you to walk into my store,” Wyatt said quietly as the automatic doors slid open and four paramedics burst inside with a gurney, followed closely by three armed police officers. “My sister’s name was Clara. Does that name ring a bell, David?”
