Chapter 8 - THE CONFRONTATION
“Grace, get out of the house!” I shouted into the phone, terror spiking my heart rate. “Get Sophie and run!”
“I can’t,” Grace replied, her voice eerily calm. “The police have the perimeter locked down. But Valerie doesn't know that yet. She parked by the service entrance. She thinks she can get in, clean out the safe, and vanish.”
“Grace, do not engage her!”
“She killed your wife, Evan. She hurt these children. She’s my sister, and I am going to end this.”
The line went dead.
“Turn this ambulance around!” I yelled at the driver.
The paramedic put a hand on my shoulder. “Sir, your son—”
“My son is stable, you’re doing a great job, but my daughter is at that house with a murderer!” I roared.
The detective up front keyed his radio, told the cruisers to divert, and the ambulance violently changed direction, sirens screaming toward my estate.
When we smashed through the iron gates of the Whitaker estate, the scene was chaotic. Local police had barricaded the front doors, but a gunshot suddenly echoed from the rear of the house.
I leaped out of the moving ambulance before it completely stopped, sprinting across the manicured lawn toward the service entrance.
I burst through the kitchen doors.
The kitchen was a wreck. Pots and pans were scattered across the marble islands. And standing by the pantry, bleeding from a graze on her shoulder, was Grace.
In front of her, holding a gun leveled at Grace’s chest, was Vanessa. Her designer coat was torn, her hair wild, her eyes frantic like a cornered animal.
“Give me the combination to the safe, Gracie,” Vanessa snarled. “Or I swear to God, I’ll kill you too.”
“You’re not getting a dime, Valerie,” Grace spat, clutching her bleeding shoulder. “The police are outside. It’s over.”
“It’s never over!” Vanessa screamed, her finger tightening on the trigger.
“Vanessa!” I shouted, stepping fully into the room, raising my own weapon.
She whipped her head toward me, the gun swinging in my direction. “Evan! Look at you. The great protector. You’re too late.”
“Michael gave you up,” I lied smoothly, my voice echoing off the tile. “He gave the police the ledger. They know you drove the car that killed Anna. They know about the wire transfers. If you shoot me, or her, you go from accessory to murder to a cop-killer, because there are thirty swat members outside that door.”
Vanessa’s hands shook. The reality of her situation was finally crashing down through her delusions of grandeur. She looked at the door. She looked at me.
“I just wanted what you had,” she whispered, a tear of angry frustration cutting through the dirt on her face. “You had so much. It wasn't fair.”
“You didn't want what I had,” I said softly. “You wanted the money. What I have is upstairs, terrified, wondering why the adults in their life keep leaving them.”
I took a step forward. “Put the gun down. You’ll live. You’ll go to prison, but you’ll live.”
Vanessa looked at Grace. Grace stared back, not with anger, but with profound, exhausting pity.
Vanessa’s shoulders slumped. She let the gun slip from her fingers. It clattered against the marble floor.
Within seconds, police swarmed the kitchen, tackling her to the ground and cuffing her. I didn't stay to watch. I stepped over the gun, ran past the officers, and took the stairs three at a time.
I burst into Sophie’s room.
She was huddled in the corner, holding a baseball bat, her eyes wide with terror.
When she saw me, the bat dropped.
“Daddy!”
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I caught her as she ran, falling to my knees on the thick carpet, wrapping my arms around her. I buried my face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her strawberry shampoo, letting the tears fall freely.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered fiercely. “I’m right here. I’m never leaving again. I’ve got you.”
