Chapter 8 - Shelby’s Desperate Gamble
David snatched the phone from my hand before I could even scream. His eyes narrowed as he analyzed the screen.
"Marcus, lock the office door," David ordered sharply. He pulled out his own phone, immediately dialing a direct line. "Detective Miller? It’s David Cole. We just received an active arson threat against Briar Hollow and Evelyn Miller. Traced from a burner phone. I’m sending the screenshot now."
Grandma’s hand tightened around my fingers. Her grip was surprisingly strong for an eighty-four-year-old woman. "Claire, who was that?"
"Don't worry, Grandma," I lied, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to sound composed. "David is handling it."
Within twelve minutes, two unmarked police cruisers had arrived at Henderson's law office to escort us, while four patrol cars converged on Briar Hollow. The facility was placed on immediate lockdown, every resident moved to the secure interior dining hall.
When Detective Miller called back, his tone was grim.
"We found the guy with the gas can," Miller said over the speakerphone. "Local vagrant. Someone handed him fifty bucks in cash outside a convenience store twenty minutes ago to stand on that corner and hold the canister while they snapped a picture."
"Who paid him?" I demanded.
"Female, mid-twenties, blonde, driving a white BMW with temporary dealer tags," Detective Miller said.
Shelby.
She had lost her mind. The country club wedding, the wealthy fiancé, the luxury social circle—it had all evaporated in less than twelve hours, and her brain had completely short-circuited. She wasn't just desperate; she was cornered, dangerous, and utterly detached from reality.
"We issued an APB for the vehicle," Miller continued. "We’ll have her in custody within the hour."
"She’s not running," I suddenly realized, the puzzle pieces clicking together in my mind. "She’s not trying to escape."
"Claire, what do you mean?" David asked, turning to me.
"Shelby has only ever cared about one thing: what other people think of her," I said, standing up. "Tomorrow was her wedding day. The rehearsal dinner was ruined, but in her sick mind, if she forces us to unfreeze the accounts, she can still pay off the venue, force Logan back to the altar, and pretend nothing happened."
"Where would she go?" Henderson asked.
"My apartment," I said. "My spare key. She knows where I keep my emergency corporate laptop and my banking authentication tokens."
David didn't hesitate. "Detective Miller, redirect units to Claire’s apartment on Elmhurst Avenue. Now."
We raced across town in the back of the police escort, sirens blaring through the humid morning air. When the cruiser skidded to a halt in front of my brownstone, the front lobby glass door was shattered.
"Stay in the car, Miss Miller," the officer in the front seat commanded, drawing his service weapon as he stepped out.
"Like hell I will," I muttered, jumping out right behind David.
We rushed up the narrow stairs to the third floor. The door to apartment 3B was hanging open, the wood around the deadbolt splintered and cracked.
Inside, the living room looked like a hurricane had ripped through it. Books were swept off the shelves, couch cushions slit open, drawers dumped onto the hardwood floor.
Sitting in the middle of the debris was Shelby.
She was wearing her white couture bridal veil over a stained gray sweatshirt and yoga pants. In her lap sat my opened laptop, the blue light illuminating her wild, bloodshot eyes. In her right hand, she held a heavy kitchen butcher knife she had taken from my knife block.
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"You changed the passwords," Shelby whispered, not looking up as the police officers raised their weapons. "You changed all the passwords, Claire. How am I supposed to pay the florist?"
***
