Chapter 9 - The Desperate Knock
Before the courier could even arrive, a loud, violent pounding rattled my front door.
Mason jumped from his chair, spilling a splash of milk on the table. "Mom?"
"Stay in the kitchen, Mason," I ordered, standing up and moving toward the entryway.
I looked through the peephole.
Jake was standing on the narrow, carpeted apartment landing. His wedding tuxedo was gone, replaced by a rumpled polo shirt and sweatpants. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, dark bags hanging under his lids. He looked like a man who hadn't slept a second and had spent the night watching his entire universe burn to the ground.
I kept the heavy deadbolt firmly locked. "Leave, Jake. I’m calling the police."
"Sarah, please! Open the damn door!" Jake begged, slamming his palm against the wood. His voice was hoarse, cracking with panic. "My cards were declined at the gas station! My business account is completely locked! Arthur Vance filed a fraud affidavit with the bank! Sarah, they're talking about an arrest warrant! You have to tell them you made a mistake!"
"I didn't make a mistake, Jake," I said through the door, my voice loud and clear. "Mason told the truth. You stole Dad's money. You stole Mason's future."
"It was Mom's idea!" Jake cried out, completely throwing our mother under the bus without a second’s hesitation. "She was the one who found the paperwork! She told me you would never find out! She said you were happy being a waitress! She said Dad was crazy for leaving everything to you and the kid! Sarah, please! If I get a felony conviction, my life is over!"
"Your life isn't over, Jake," I said cold-bloodedly. "You're just going to have to live like I lived for the last three years. Broke. Desperate. Wondering how you're going to survive the week."
"You selfish bitch!" Jake screamed, kicking the bottom of the door. "Open this door right now!"
"Step away from the door, sir."
A calm, deep voice echoed from the stairwell.
I looked through the peephole again. Two uniformed police officers, accompanied by a courier in a professional navy suit holding a leather folder, were stepping onto the landing.
"Jake Hayes?" one of the officers asked, his hand resting casually on his utility belt.
Jake froze, spinning around, his face draining of whatever color was left. "Yes? What is this?"
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"We have a warrant for your arrest regarding grand larceny and identity fraud, issued by the county court," the officer said, stepping forward with handcuffs already unclipped. "Turn around and put your hands behind your back."
Jake tried to stutter an explanation, his hands shaking wildly, but the officers moved with practiced, unhurried efficiency. Within thirty seconds, my brother was cuffed, read his Miranda rights, and marched down the hallway in utter disgrace.
