Chapter 2 - The Door On Its HingesFour police cruisers tore up the curving gravel driveway, their tires throwing wet stones against the manicured hedges. Siren wails echoed off the high stone walls of Hawthorne Manor.
Grant’s face turned an ugly shade of grey as six armed officers stepped out into the pouring rain, their flashlights cutting through the dark.
“Drop the bat! Drop the bat now!” Officer Rodriguez barked, drawing his service weapon.
Grant froze, his breath catching in his throat. He slowly set the baseball bat on the wet pavers, raising his hands. “Officers, officers, calm down! There’s been a huge misunderstanding! My father-in-law here lost his temper and smashed his own headlight on my driveway!”
Vivian stepped off the porch, her silk robe dragging in the wet grass. “Chief Reynolds is a personal friend of our family! I demand you put those weapons away this instant!”
I didn't waste a single breath arguing with them. I walked straight past Grant, pushed open the grand oak front doors of the mansion, and stepped into the foyer.
“Claire!” I shouted.
A weak groan answered from the grand library down the hall.
I threw open the double doors. Claire lay on the hardwood floor near a overturned mahogany desk, her silk nightgown torn, her golden hair soaked in sweat and tears. A deep, horrific purple bruise was already forming across her left cheek and eye.
“Dad...” she sobbed, reaching out her trembling arms as I dropped to my knees beside her.
“I’m here, baby. I’m right here,” I whispered, pulling her frail, shaking body tightly against my chest, wrapping my jacket around her shoulders.
Officer Rodriguez stepped into the room, his eyes widening in horror at the scene. He immediately spoke into his shoulder radio: “Dispatch, send an ambulance to Hawthorne Manor. Severe domestic trauma, victim is conscious but visibly injured.”
Outside in the foyer, Grant came storming through the door, flanked by two officers who were trying to hold him back. His face was contorted in blind, manic rage.
“She fell down the stairs!” Grant shrieked, struggling against the officers’ grip. “You can’t take her! She’s my wife! She belongs in this house!”
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I stood up slowly, cradling my weeping daughter against my shoulder, and turned to face the man who had laid his hands on my child.
“She’s not your wife anymore, Grant,” I said, my voice echoing through the high-ceilinged mansion with an absolute, terrifying calm. “She’s your prosecution.”
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