Chapter 3 - The Flashing Red and BlueThe three minutes that followed felt like an eternity stretched across a bed of hot coals.
Daniel finally released my arm, shoving me backward onto the floor before walking to the refrigerator to pour himself a glass of ice water. He didn't offer me a single drop.
Linda was busy snapping photos of the burnt steaks on her phone. “I’m sending these to your mother, Clara. She needs to know what a failure of a housewife she raised.”
“My mother passed away eighteen months ago, Linda,” I said, cradling my scorched hand against my chest with my left arm.
“Well, then her ghost should be embarrassed,” Linda replied without missing a beat, taking a long drag from her wine glass.
Suddenly, the quiet evening atmosphere of our gated suburban neighborhood was shattered.
Screeching tires echoed down the driveway. High-powered spotlights cut through the sheer linen curtains of our front living room windows, painting the walls in blinding flashes of rotating red and blue.
Harold froze in his recliner, his jaw dropping as he looked out the window. “What the hell? Is there a fire down the street?”
Daniel frowned, setting his water glass down on the counter. “It’s probably just the neighborhood patrol.”
Then came the heavy, thunderous pounding on our front door.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
“POLICE DEPARTMENT! OPEN THE DOOR IMMEDIATELY!” a powerful female voice boomed through the solid oak entrance.
Daniel blinked in utter confusion, looking at his mother. “Did you call someone?”
“Of course not!” Linda gasped, clutching her wine glass.
Daniel walked toward the foyer, adjusting his shirt collar, trying to assemble his polished corporate persona. “It must be a mistake. A false alarm.”
He opened the heavy front door with a practiced, charming smile. “Good evening, Officers. Is there a problem in the neighborhood—”
Before he could finish his sentence, four uniform officers and two plainclothes detectives barged into the foyer, their hands resting on their sidearms.
Leading the entry was Detective Marisol Vega—a sharp-eyed woman with silver-streaked hair and a cold, uncompromising expression.
“Daniel Vance?” Detective Vega demanded, her voice cutting through the house like a whip.
“Yes, I’m Daniel Vance,” he stammered, stepping back. “Look, whatever this is, there’s been a misunderstanding—”
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“Where is Clara Vance?” Vega interrupted, her eyes scanning the grand entryway.
From the kitchen floor, I gathered every ounce of my remaining strength and shouted at the top of my lungs: “I’M IN THE KITCHEN! HELP ME!”
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