Chapter 8 - The Handcuffs Click
The color completely vanished from Denise’s face. She staggered back a step, her hand flying to her throat as if she were choking on her own poison.
Ryan swung his head toward the ceiling, spotting the tiny, recessed camera lenses he had walked past every day for a year without ever noticing. His arrogant bravado shattered into microscopic pieces.
“Elena...” Ryan’s voice cracked, dropping into a pathetic, trembling whine. “Elena, baby, wait... let’s talk about this. We don’t need the police involved. It was just a family fight! My mom didn't mean it, and I was just trying to keep the peace! I lost my temper because I was stressed about work! You know how much I love you!”
“Step back, sir,” Officer Miller commanded, drawing a pair of steel handcuffs from his utility belt with a crisp, terrifying ratchet sound.
“Wait! You can’t arrest me!” Ryan cried out, backing toward the bed, waving his hands frantically. “I live here! She’s my wife! She hit me with a skillet!”
“In self-defense after you battered her across the face twice, leaving visible contusions and lacerations,” Officer Vance said coldly, pulling her own cuffs. “And your mother committed felony aggravated battery with a deadly weapon or caustic substance. Turn around. Both of you.”
“No! Don't you dare touch me!” Denise shrieked, flailing her arms like an enraged child as Officer Vance stepped in. “Do you know who my family is? My brother is a city commissioner! You’ll lose your pensions! Ryan, do something! Ryan!”
Ryan didn’t do anything. He couldn’t.
Officer Miller grabbed Ryan’s bruised arm, twisted it behind his back, and slammed him face-down onto the plush designer duvet. Ryan let out a muffled whimper as the cold steel bit into his wrists, ratcheting tight until he gasped for breath.
“Ryan Mercer, you are under arrest for domestic battery, assault, and tampering with emergency communications,” Miller recited in a monotonous, practiced drone.
Seconds later, Officer Vance had Denise pinned against the corridor wall, clicking the cuffs around the older woman’s frail, manicured wrists. Denise was spitting curses, calling me every filthy name she could muster, her face purple with unadulterated fury.
Two paramedics finally entered the master suite carrying a trauma bag and a portable stretcher.
“We’ve got you, ma'am,” the lead paramedic said, gently guiding me down onto the edge of the bed to examine my legs. “Those are deep partial-thickness burns. We need to get you to the burn center immediately to prevent severe infection.”
As they loaded me onto the gurney, Ryan was hauled upright by Officer Miller. His eyes were wide with terror, tears streaming down his cheeks, snot running from his nose.
“Elena, please!” Ryan begged, straining against the cuffs. “Don't do this! Think about our marriage! Think about our vows! If I go to jail, I’ll lose my job at the firm! Who’s going to pay the bills?”
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I looked at him from the stretcher—this man-child who had let his mother burn me, who had struck me across the face to force my submission, who thought my achievements belonged to him simply because of his gender.
“I paid all the bills, Ryan,” I said, my voice ice cold. “And as of right now, your lease on my life has been terminated.”
