Chloe nodded weakly. She reached a trembling hand toward the dry-erase board and marker the nurse had left on the bedside table. I held the board steady for her. With agonizing slowness, her hand shaking violently, she wrote three words in black ink.
LIAM. ELEANOR. GOLF CLUB.
She paused, taking a ragged breath through her nose, before writing one more line.
THEY SAID THE BABY WAS A MISTAKE.
I gently took the whiteboard from her and handed it directly to the Detective.
“Attempted murder,” I said, my voice made of cold, unforgiving steel. “Aggravated assault of a pregnant woman. Kidnapping. Conspiracy to commit murder. I want them in chains.”
The Detective looked down at the horrifying words on the board, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. “I have more than enough for a warrant, Mrs. Hayes. I have enough to kick the damn door off its hinges.”
Two days later. 6:00 A.M.
The sun was just beginning to rise over the sprawling Sterling estate. The harsh, chemical smell of gasoline had long since faded from the porch, washed completely away by two days of heavy rain, entirely unnoticed by the arrogant occupants who were far too self-absorbed to ever smell their own impending doom.
I parked my Ford truck right at the end of their long, manicured driveway. This time, I wasn’t hiding in the dark woods. I was standing dead in the center of the asphalt road, leaning against the hood of my truck, holding a large, steaming cup of black coffee.
