Chapter 7 - THE MATCH
My blood turned to ice.
“If you touch Buster,” Madison’s voice trembled behind me. She had heard the audio bleeding through the phone speaker. “Mom, she’s in our house!”
“Vanessa, get out of my home,” I said, my voice dropping to a terrifying calm.
“I’m not leaving until you bring the deed to the house, Elizabeth,” Vanessa said lightly, though the slight tremor in her breath betrayed her nerves. “I’m looking at your beautiful family photos on the mantle. It would be a shame if a fire started. Old wiring, you know. Sometimes houses just burn down, taking all the assets inside with them.”
She was bluffing. She had to be.
But Vanessa was desperate. If she went back to her father empty-handed, he would destroy her.
“Call the police,” Arthur whispered, already pulling out his cell phone.
“If I see a single police cruiser turn onto this street, I will drop the match on the gasoline I’ve poured in your hallway,” Vanessa warned, anticipating our move. “Just you, Elizabeth. Bring the deed. You have twenty minutes.”
The line went dead.
I turned to Arthur. “Don't call the police.”
“Elizabeth, she’s threatening arson! She’s unhinged.”
“If she burns the house down, she destroys the only place Madison has ever felt safe since my mother died,” I said, putting the deed and the gold sun pin back into the envelope. “Take Madison to the diner. Lock the doors.”
“Mom, no!” Madison grabbed my jacket. “You can't go alone!”
“I will be right back, sweetheart. I promise.”
I drove Arthur’s sedan like a madwoman, running two red lights. I pulled into our quiet suburban driveway.
Vanessa’s luxury SUV was parked on the lawn.
I left the car running and walked up to the front door. It was unlocked.
I stepped inside.
The overwhelming smell of gasoline hit me immediately. She wasn't bluffing. She had poured an entire jerry can over the hardwood floors of the foyer.
Vanessa was standing by the fireplace in the living room, holding a lit candle. She was wearing designer jeans and a silk blouse, looking entirely out of place in my family home.
She wasn't holding our golden retriever, Buster. The dog was smartly hiding under the kitchen table, whining softly.
“Put the candle down, Vanessa,” I said, holding up the manila envelope.
Vanessa’s eyes locked onto the envelope. “Is it in there?”
“The original deed. Yes.”
“Bring it here. Place it on the coffee table.”
I walked slowly into the living room, my shoes sticking to the gasoline-soaked rug. I placed the envelope on the glass table.
Vanessa smiled. A cold, victorious smile.
“Thank you, Elizabeth. Robert was right. You’re entirely too sentimental. You chose a house over fifty million dollars.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a heavy, black handgun.
My breath hitched.
“Did you really think I was just going to let you walk away?” Vanessa said, aiming the gun at my chest. “My father is not a forgiving man. If I leave you alive to testify that we stole the deed, we still go to prison.”
She reached for the envelope with her free hand.
“Open it,” Vanessa ordered. “Show me the signature.”
I slowly reached into the envelope. My fingers brushed the thick paper of the deed.
But my fingers also brushed the heavy, solid gold sun pin.
I looked at Vanessa. She was distracted, her eyes greedily fixed on the edge of the paper I was pulling out.
“You know, Vanessa,” I said softly. “You should have listened to my mother’s tape a little closer.”
Vanessa frowned. “What?”
“She didn't just leave me the station.”
With a sudden, violent movement, I ripped the heavy gold sun pin from the envelope and hurled it directly at Vanessa’s face.
The heavy gold caught her right in the cheekbone.
Vanessa screamed, stumbling backward. The gun fired into the ceiling.
I lunged forward, grabbing her wrist with both hands. We slammed into the mantle, knocking over family photographs. She was younger, but I was a mother defending her home. I slammed her wrist against the brick fireplace until her fingers opened and the gun clattered onto the hearth.
Vanessa shrieked and shoved me backward. She scrambled toward the lit candle on the table.
“I’ll burn it all!” she screamed, grabbing the candle.
But before she could throw it onto the gasoline-soaked rug, the front door burst open.
“Chicago Police! Drop it!”
Three armed officers flooded into the room, their weapons trained on Vanessa.
Behind them stood Arthur. And Mr. Collins.
Vanessa froze, the candle trembling in her hand. She looked at the police, then at the gun on the floor, and slowly lowered the candle.
An officer slammed her against the wall, slapping handcuffs on her wrists.
I leaned against the wall, gasping for air.
Arthur rushed over to me. “Elizabeth! Are you hurt?”
“You called them,” I breathed, staring at him.
“Madison called them,” Arthur said, a proud smile breaking across his face. “She told me she wasn't going to let her mother fight alone. She used her old red cassette player to record Vanessa’s entire phone call at the shipping center. She played it for the 911 dispatcher.”
I covered my face with my hands, sobbing in pure relief.
As the police dragged a screaming Vanessa out the front door, a detective approached me.
“Mrs. Whitmore?” he asked. “We just got a call from the downtown precinct.”
“What is it?” I asked.
May you like
“Your husband, Robert Whitmore. He just walked into the station. He’s trying to file a police report claiming you embezzled fifteen million dollars from the company, and that he has the forged documents to prove it.”
The detective looked at me sympathetically. “He’s trying to pin the entire fraud on you.”
