Chapter 4 - The Handcuffs and the Hospital
The transition from a high-society anniversary celebration to a crime scene took less than five minutes.
As the two uniformed officers stepped onto the stage and hauled Eric to his feet, the sound of steel cuffs clicking shut echoed sharply through the silent ballroom. Eric didn't fight back. He didn't shout or threaten lawsuits. He just kept his head down, staring blankly at the polished wooden floorboards as they led him past the tables of stunned, whispering guests.
My mother had to be seated by the catering staff, a damp cloth pressed against her forehead as she softly wept into my father’s shoulder. My father looked at me with a mixture of profound shock and reluctant respect. He had always been a traditional man who believed in keeping family matters buried, but as he watched Eric being escorted out in handcuffs, he gave me a slow, solemn nod.
He understood that some tumors had to be cut out entirely if the body was going to survive.
And then there was Natalie.
She tried to slip away toward the service exit near the back of the kitchen, her red dress rustling loudly in the quiet room. But Grant Miller had anticipated that move. He stepped calmly into her path, blocking the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest.
"Where do you think you're going, Natalie?" Grant asked, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.
"Get out of my way!" Natalie snarled, her face twisted in an ugly mask of panic and rage. She slammed her fists against Grant’s chest, but she might as well have been hitting a brick wall. "I'm pregnant! You can't touch me! I have rights!"
"Oh, you definitely have rights, Natalie," Detective Vance said as he walked over, pulling a second pair of silver handcuffs from his belt. "Conspiracy to commit wire fraud, money laundering, and aiding in corporate embezzlement. Those are very serious charges. Being pregnant doesn't grant you immunity from federal felony indictments."
Natalie froze, her eyes widening in sheer disbelief. "Embezzlement? What are you talking about? I didn't steal anything! Eric handled the accounts!"
"According to the paper trail Grant uncovered, those shell companies were registered directly under your name and social security number," Detective Vance replied smoothly, grabbing her wrist and snapping the cuff into place. "Which means you weren't just an accomplice—you were the primary beneficiary of the stolen funds."
As Natalie was led away, sobbing loudly and screaming my name in a frenzy of impotent rage, the ballroom finally began to empty. The guests cleared out in hushed, nervous whispers, eager to escape the suffocating drama of a family utterly destroyed by its own greed.
Within twenty minutes, the grand ballroom was completely deserted, save for the caterers quietly packing up untouched plates of food and shattered glass.
I stood alone in the center of the room, looking at the large ice sculpture of a swan standing near the head table. The edges were beginning to melt, water dripping steadily onto the white linen tablecloth. Ten years of my life had just evaporated into thin air, just like that ice.
"Well," Grant said softly, walking up beside me and handing me my briefcase. "That went according to plan."
"Thank you, Grant," I said, taking the briefcase and offering him a genuine, if tired, smile. "You earned every cent of your retainer."
"It wasn't just business, Maya," Grant said, his tone softening. "Some people deserve what's coming to them. What are you going to do now?"
"Now?" I looked around the empty room, feeling an immense, indescribable weight lift off my shoulders for the first time in a decade. "Now, I go to the hospital."
Grant raised an eyebrow. "The hospital?"
"Natalie mentioned a pregnancy," I replied calmly, walking toward the grand exit doors. "And while my husband may be a liar and a thief, I'm still a very thorough investigator. I want to make sure we have all our bases covered before the arraignment tomorrow morning."
An hour later, I walked through the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors of St. Jude Memorial Hospital. Grant had arranged for a discreet consultation with the head of obstetrics, a trusted old acquaintance of his who understood the legal nuances of the ongoing federal investigation.
When I stepped into the private consultation room, a young nurse practitioner looked up from her computer screen, blinking in surprise.
"Mrs. Vance? I thought you were attending your anniversary party tonight."
"Plans changed," I said smoothly, taking a seat across her desk. "I'm here regarding my sister, Natalie Vance. She was just brought in under police custody for medical evaluation. I need to review her intake records and verify the status of her pregnancy."
The nurse hesitated, glancing down at the confidentiality guidelines on her screen. But before she could object, the door swung open and Grant stepped inside, flashing a federal warrant signed by a local magistrate judge.
"By order of the court," Grant said calmly, placing the document on the desk. "All medical records pertaining to the suspect's current physical and biological status are subject to immediate inspection."
Ten minutes later, the nurse handed us a printed medical file. I opened it slowly, scanning the ultrasound reports, hormone panels, and admitting physician notes.
My eyes stopped on a specific paragraph near the bottom of the page.
A slow, knowing smile crept across my lips.
May you like
Natalie thought she had played the ultimate trump card. She thought a fake pregnancy was enough to anchor my husband and destroy my life. But she had made one fatal, arrogant mistake.
She had underestimated the person she was trying to destroy.
