Chapter 6 - THE AMBUSH AT LINCOLN PARK
Three days later, a heavy autumn rain hit Chicago, washing the streets in a cold, grey mist.
I stepped out of a yellow taxi outside my Lincoln Park apartment building at 7:00 PM, holding a warm bag of takeout and my briefcase. The neighborhood was quiet, the streetlamps casting long, flickering amber reflections across the wet pavement.
As I walked up the stone steps toward the grand glass entrance, a figure stepped out from behind the heavy oak pillar near the door.
It was Patricia.
She was wearing a soaked trench coat, her hair unraveled by the wind, her face pale, hollow, and lined with desperation. She didn't look like the proud, cruel matriarch who had ordered me around my own kitchen four days ago. She looked broken, wild, and dangerous.
“Claire,” she rasped, her voice harsh above the sound of the rain.
I stopped four feet away from her, my hand instantly slipping into my coat pocket where my phone was set to speed-dial emergency services.
“You have a protective order against you, Patricia,” I said clearly. “If you don't step off this property in five seconds, you will be arrested.”
“You ruined my son!” she shrieked, taking a wild step toward me, her eyes bloodshot. “His firm suspended him! Arthur’s fund is being investigated by the federal government! The bank is taking my home on Monday! All because you couldn't just make breakfast and keep your mouth shut!”
“You struck me in my own home, Patricia,” I said, my voice cold as iron. “You brought this on yourself.”
“You selfish, arrogant little bitch!” she screamed, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a heavy, glass bottle of household bleach.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Before she could unscrew the cap or throw it, two dark-suited figures stepped out from the building’s private security detail that I had hired three days prior.
In one swift, professional movement, the lead security officer grabbed Patricia’s wrist, twisting the bottle away from her hand, while the second officer forced her down onto the stone steps, holding her arms behind her back.
The bleach bottle clattered onto the stone, rolling down the wet stairs into the gutter.
Patricia screamed, thrashing against the wet stone floor, cursing my name at the top of her lungs as the street echoed with the sudden, sharp wail of approaching police sirens.
May you like
I stood on the top step, looking down at her, my hand steady inside my pocket.
“I told you, Patricia,” I whispered as the red and blue lights illuminated the rain-slicked avenue. “You don't own this house anymore.”
