Chapter 6 - The Broken Shield
The drive to the hospital was a blur of flashing blue lights and the screech of tires. Detective Miller drove with siren blaring, weaving through midnight traffic while I sat in the passenger seat, my fingernails digging into the dashboard until my hands went numb.
"Hospital security has initiated a full lockdown of the pediatric wing," Miller shouted over the siren. "Officer Reynolds is outside Rosie's door. Bethany isn't getting within twenty feet of that room, David. Breathe."
"You don't know her!" I yelled, my voice cracking with desperation. "Bethany isn't sane! When she realizes the net is closing, she doesn't run away—she burns the house down with everyone inside it! That’s how Eleanor raised her!"
My phone rang again. It wasn't Eleanor this time. It was the hospital landline.
I hit speakerphone. "Hello?!"
*"David, it’s Marcus,"* the social worker’s voice was tense, background sirens and shouting bleeding through the line. *"Bethany rammed her SUV through the security gate of the south parking deck. She’s on foot inside the facility. Security is sweeping the corridors. Officer Reynolds has secured Rosie inside the utility closet behind the nurses' station. We are barricaded in."*
"We’re two minutes away!" I screamed. "Do not open that door for anyone!"
Miller spun the cruiser into the hospital’s ambulance bay, clipping the curb as we slid to a halt. Before the car had completely stopped, I kicked my door open and ran.
The automatic glass doors of the pediatric wing were locked, but Miller smashed through the emergency release panel with his baton. The alarm was wailing—a high-pitched, staccato pulse that made my skull throb.
We ran down the wide hallway of the fourth floor. Ceiling tiles were reflected on the polished linoleum. Near the nurse's station, two hospital security guards were pinned against the wall, coughing from pepper spray that hung in the air like a mustard fog.
And there, standing outside the heavy wooden door of Room 4-B, was Bethany.
She was wearing a stained beige trench coat over sweatpants, her hair matted and wild, her mascara smeared across her pale face. In her right hand, she held a heavy brass fire extinguisher she had ripped from the wall mounting.
She was pounding it against the door handle, screaming at the top of her lungs.
"Open the door, you little brat! Open it! You ruined my life! You’re just like your mother! I should have finished you when you were a baby!"
"Bethany!" I roared.
She froze, spinning around. The fire extinguisher slipped from her grip, clattering loudly against the floor.
When she saw me, her expression didn't show fear. It contorted into an ugly, triumphant sneer.
"David," she laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "Look at you. Always the good little boy. Always the protector. Did you see the pretty pictures in the trunk? Did daddy give you the key? That old bastard. He was always weak."
Detective Miller drew his weapon, leveling it directly at her chest. "Bethany Vance! Drop to your knees! Put your hands on top of your head! Now!"
Bethany ignored him completely. She took a step toward me, reaching into her pocket.
Miller clicked the safety off. "Don't do it!"
Bethany pulled her hand out. It wasn't a gun. It was a silver Zippo lighter.
She flicked it open. The flame caught, dancing between her trembling fingers.
"You think you’re taking everything from me?" she whispered, her voice dropping into a chilling, calm cadence. "Mommy promised me that money. Mommy promised Sarah wouldn't be an issue anymore. Sarah was going to take Rosie and leave you, David! Did you know that? Sarah was packing her bags because she found out Eleanor was stealing your trust fund! I did you a favor! I saved you from being humiliated!"
The hallway seemed to tilt. The horror of her words washed over me, sickening and heavy.
"Sarah never left me," I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "She was trying to protect me. She was going to blow the whistle on Eleanor."
"And she paid for it," Bethany laughed, tears streaming down her hollow cheeks. "Just like Rosie is going to pay. You don't get to win, David. The Vances don't lose."
She lunged forward, not toward me, but toward the oxygen valve set into the corridor wall, raising the lighter high.
Before she could strike the spark against the valve, Detective Miller lunged. He tackled her around the waist, slamming her body against the linoleum. The lighter skidded across the floor, stopping at my feet.
Bethany screamed—a high, inhuman shriek of absolute fury—as Miller pinned her wrists behind her back and forced her face into the cold tile.
"David Vance!" she shrieked, spitting blood onto the floor. "I’ll kill her! As soon as I get out, I’ll find that little bitch and I’ll finish what I started! Eleanor will bail me out! Eleanor always bails me out!"
"Not this time," a voice said from down the hallway.
I turned. My father, Arthur Vance, was walking toward us, flanked by two state troopers. He had changed into a dark suit. His back was straight for the first time in twenty years.
In his hand, he held a digital voice recorder.
"Eleanor isn't bailing anyone out, Bethany," my father said, his voice completely steady, devoid of the fear that had defined his existence. "She’s currently being booked into the county jail for vehicular homicide conspiracy, witness tampering, and grand larceny. And I just spent the last two hours giving the District Attorney forty years of Eleanor's bank records."
Bethany stopped thrashing. She looked up at our father, her eyes widening in genuine, paralyzed terror.
"Daddy?" she whimpered.
May you like
Arthur looked down at her with cold, unyielding pity. "You are not my daughter anymore. You are a criminal who tried to murder my granddaughter. And you will spend the rest of your life in a cage."
***
