Chapter 4 - The House of Mirrors
By 4:00 AM, the hospital room was quiet except for the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of my baby’s heart on the monitor.
Dr. Aris had administered a mild sedative to stop my uterine contractions, but sleep was an impossible luxury. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw David’s hand coming down toward me. I saw the cold, mechanical precision in his eyes right before he slammed me into the checkout counter.
He hadn't been angry about $14.
He had been setting the stage.
Detective Reynolds sat in a chair beside my bed, a yellow legal pad resting on her knees.
“Sarah,” Reynolds said softly. “Did David ever ask you to sign life insurance papers? Anything related to estate planning or trust funds after you found out you were pregnant?”
My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.
“Two months ago,” I whispered, memory pulling back the curtain on a evening I had completely forgotten. “He brought home a stack of documents from his legal firm. He told me it was a standard family trust to ensure the baby would be taken care of if anything happened to his company. He... he told me to sign on the yellow sticky tabs. He wouldn't let me read the fine print. He said I was getting 'pregnancy brain' and that he would handle the legal jargon.”
Reynolds jotted down notes frantically. “Do you know where those papers are kept?”
“In his home office,” I said. “In the mahogany desk. It’s always locked. I don't have a key.”
“We’ll get a search warrant,” Reynolds said, standing up immediately. “Wyatt is outside in the hallway. He refused to leave until he knew you were safe.”
Ten minutes later, Wyatt entered the room holding two paper cups of lukewarm cafeteria coffee. He offered one to me, his large, rough hand incredibly gentle as he set it on the bedside table.
“You don't have to go back to that house, Sarah,” Wyatt said, sitting in the visitor’s chair. “My mother lives ten miles outside town on a quiet farm. Once the doctors discharge you, you’re coming with us.”
“Why are you doing this for me?” I asked, tears stinging my eyes. “You don't even know me, Wyatt.”
Wyatt looked down at his calloused hands. “Because seven years ago, I was three hours away when Clara called me crying about a fight over a crib mattress. I told her to calm down, that married people argue about money all the time. I didn't go to her house. I didn't save her.” He looked up, his eyes piercing and sincere. “I couldn't save my sister, Sarah. But I am not going to let him touch you or your daughter ever again.”
At 6:00 AM, Detective Reynolds returned to the room. Her face was grim, her uniform smelling of faint morning dew.
“We executed the search warrant on your house, Sarah,” she said, pulling a laptop out of her bag and turning the screen toward us. “Our forensics team opened the safe behind the drywall in his office.”
On the screen was a high-resolution photograph of an official document bearing my signature.
A three-million-dollar term life insurance policy issued by a firm in the Cayman Islands. It had been finalized thirty days ago. The primary beneficiary was a holding company controlled entirely by David Vance.
Attached to the back of the policy was a hand-written calendar. Dates were marked with small red circles.
May you like
Today’s date was circled in thick, dark ink. Beside it, in David’s neat, elegant handwriting, were three words:
Accidental Fall. Store.
