Chapter 6 - The Interception
The door swung inward, but before Richard could step over the threshold, a hand clamped firmly onto the edge of the doorframe, slamming it back against the wall.
Dr. Evelyn Vance stepped directly into the doorway, blocking the entrance with her body. She was still in her lab coat, holding a thick, rigid clipboard with a stainless steel clip.
“You’re out of your jurisdiction, Richard,” Vance said, her voice dropping into an octave that was terrifyingly calm.
Richard Brennan stood under the fluorescent lights of the corridor. He wore a crisp charcoal overcoat over an ironed blue dress shirt. His silver-streaked hair was neatly parted, his jaw shaved clean. He looked every bit the distinguished chief surgeon—not a single hair out of place, not a drop of sweat on his brow. Only I could see the terrifying, dead void behind his eyes.
“Evelyn,” Dad said, offering a tight, patient smile. “I appreciate you treating Olivia’s little mishap. But she is my daughter, and as her father and a board-certified surgeon, I am assuming her primary care. Sign the discharge release.”
“Mishap?” Vance raised an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling a non-accidental, localized thermal trauma consistent with forced submersion into a heating element?”
Richard’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed to cold slits. “Olivia has been experiencing severe psychological distress since her grandmother’s passing. She has developed self-harming tendencies. She had a manic episode in our kitchen tonight. I did everything in my power to pull her away from the range, but she was hysterical.”
Lies. Seamless, beautiful, lethal lies. He delivered them with the effortless cadence of a man reading a textbook.
“Is that why you have defensive scratch marks on your left wrist, Richard?” Vance asked, her gaze flicking downward to the sliver of skin between his watch and his cuff.
Richard casually tucked his hands into his overcoat pockets. “She was thrashing. I had to restrain her for her own protection. Surely, as a clinician, you understand the necessity of physical containment during an acute psychotic break.”
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“I understand forensic pathology,” Vance replied, stepping out into the hallway and pulling the door shut behind her, cutting off my view of him. “And I know that Clara Webb also had a ‘manic episode’ before she ended up with identical burns.”
Through the frosted glass, I saw Richard’s posture stiffen. The cultivated warmth drained from his silhouette, replaced by a rigid, predatory stillness.
