Chapter 18 - The Confession in the Dark
Harold scoffed, though a razor-thin edge of tension clipped the end of his laughter. "You don't know a damn thing. You spent five years crying into court-mandated tissues while a state caseworker treated you like a stray dog. You couldn't even protect your daughter from a dirty sink."
"I was drugged, Harold." Daniel stood up. He didn't sway. He didn't stumble. He rose to his full height, stepping out of the shadows. "The speaker on the counter. The infrasound loop. You had the transmitter installed when you helped us move the furniture after Rachel’s funeral."
Harold’s smirk wavered, then set into a rigid, ugly line. "You think anyone is going to believe that science-fiction garbage? I have three separate court evaluations certifying you have chronic dissociative episodes. Tomorrow morning, child welfare receives another set of time-stamped images of you sitting in this dark room surrounded by empty bourbon bottles. Lily will be placed in emergency kinship foster care by Tuesday afternoon. And as her sole surviving paternal uncle with clean credit and an Evanston estate, guess who gets named trustee of Rachel’s six-million-dollar offshore account?"
"Six million," Daniel whispered. "That's what my daughter's childhood was worth to you? That's what you broke her heart for?"
"She was four years old, Danny! She didn't feel anything except cold water on her hands! Kids bounce back!" Harold snapped, his mask slipping entirely, revealing the rancid narcissism underneath. "Rachel ruined my life when she froze those grandfather bonds! She had to be handled! If she had kept her eyes on the road instead of checking her rearview mirror for my tail car, she’d still be alive! She panicked! That's on her!"
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"So you were on Route 9," a new voice came from the hallway.
Sarah Lin stepped out from the dining room archway, her Glock drawn and leveled at Harold’s chest. Behind her, two uniformed officers emerged from the kitchen corridor, their body cameras glowing red.
"Harold Vance," Lin announced, her voice echoing off the walls. "Step away from the table and put your hands on your head."
Harold’s face drained of color. He took a frantic step backward toward the front door, his hand reaching inside his cashmere coat.
"DON'T MOVE!" Lin shouted.
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From the shadows behind the coat rack, Margaret lunged forward with terrifying speed, slamming the heavy front door shut and locking the deadbolt with a resounding metallic thud.
"You're not leaving this house, Harold," Margaret hissed, her eyes blazing with five years of unspent rage. "Not until you pay for every single tear my granddaughter cried at that sink."
