Chapter 4 - Blood on the Asphalt
"Mommy! Mommy, wake up!"
Genevieve’s tiny fists were pounding frantically against the passenger window. Through the haze of searing pain and cold, her voice was the only anchor keeping me from slipping into unconsciousness.
Every tiny twitch of my left leg sent lightning bolts of pure torment shooting up into my spine. The bone was broken—there was no doubt about it. The edge of the shovel had torn clean through my denim, and the rainwater pooling around me was turning a dark, diluted crimson.
*Move. You have to move for Genevieve.*
Gritting my teeth until my jaw popped, I dragged myself across the wet asphalt using my elbows, pulling my dead weight inch by inch until I reached the rear door handle. I reached up, popped the latch, and fell backward against the car frame.
"Baby," I choked out, fighting through the dizziness. "Listen to Mommy. Unbuckle your seatbelt. Slowly."
Genevieve scrambled out of her booster seat. Her big brown eyes were wide with terror, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. "Mommy, your leg is bleeding! Grandpa hurt you!"
"I know, sweetie. I know. Grab Mommy’s phone from the cupholder. Press the emergency button. Dial 911."
Her hands were shaking, but she was Harold Vance's granddaughter in one respect: when cornered, she had a fierce, stubborn focus. She tapped the screen, brought the phone to her ear, and spoke with heartbreaking clarity: "Help us! Grandpa hit my mommy with a shovel! There's blood everywhere at our house!"
While Genevieve talked to the emergency dispatcher, I reached deep inside my winter coat. My fingers brushed the thick zip-lock bag containing the black ledger and the altered trust agreement. If Harold realized he had stolen a decoy briefcase filled with useless real estate brochures, he would come back. And next time, he wouldn't leave me breathing.
Within seven minutes, the faint wail of sirens pierced the stormy night. Two patrol cruisers from the local precinct roared into the cul-de-sac, followed closely by the flashing red lights of an ambulance.
Officers drawn with weapons rushed up the driveway.
"Put your hands where I can see them!" the lead officer shouted before taking in the scene: a young mother lying in a pool of blood and rain, a little girl sobbing over her, and no attackers in sight.
"It was Harold and Evelyn Vance," I gasped, clutching the officer's rain-slicked sleeve as paramedics rushed in with a backboard and splints. "Black Lincoln Navigator... license plate ending in 4-8-7. They assaulted me. They took my briefcase... but the evidence... the evidence is right here."
A tall, sharp-eyed detective stepped out of the second cruiser, flashing his badge: Detective Marcus Miller. He knelt beside the stretcher as the EMTs carefully stabilized my fractured leg.
"Ma'am, don't try to move," Miller said, his voice calm, gravelly, and commanding. "Who did this to you?"
"My parents," I hissed through gritted teeth as an EMT injected a fast-acting analgesic into my arm. "They tried to extort $525,000 from my daughter's inheritance. Inside my coat... Detective, you cannot let anyone else touch this coat. The proof of everything is in the inside pocket."
Miller unzipped the outer shell of my soaked winter coat, his eyes widening slightly as he pulled out the heavy, blood-spattered black ledger and the signed documents.
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"Detective," I whispered, fighting the sudden, heavy drowsiness of the painkillers. "They think they got the money. When they realize they don't have it... they'll run."
"They won't get far," Detective Miller replied, his jaw hardening. "Get her to St. Jude’s Memorial. I’m issuing an immediate felony warrant for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon."
