Chapter 9 - Logan Walks Away
"Drop the knife, Shelby!" the lead officer barked, his firearm trained directly on her chest. "Hands where we can see them! Now!"
Shelby blinked slowly, as if just noticing the three armed police officers standing in the doorway. She tilted her head, the delicate lace of her six-thousand-dollar veil brushing against the cold steel of the eight-inch chef's knife.
"Claire," Shelby whimpered, her voice bizarrely soft, resembling a child whose toy had been taken away. "Tell them to put the guns down. They're scaring me. Just give me the two-factor authentication code for your investment portfolio. That’s all I need. Three hundred thousand dollars. Grandview said if I wire it before noon, they won't release our date to the waitlist."
"Shelby, it's over," I said, stepping past David’s protective arm despite his warning grip on my waist. "Look at yourself. Look at what you're doing."
"You don't understand!" she suddenly shrieked, driving the tip of the knife down into the coffee table with terrifying force. The wood splintered. "Logan loves me! His family loves me! But they won't love me if I'm poor! They won't love me if I'm just Marlene Miller's daughter from the east side! I had to be somebody, Claire! Why couldn't you just let me have this?"
"Because you were building your life out of Grandma's blood!" I shouted back, the fury finally breaking through my restraint. "You left an eighty-four-year-old woman in a room that smelled like industrial grease while you played princess! You aren't somebody, Shelby. You're a thief."
Heavy footsteps echoed on the staircase outside. A man pushed his way past the officers in the doorway.
It was Logan.
He had dark circles under his eyes, his crisp rehearsal dinner suit replaced by rumpled jeans and a black jacket. In his hand, he held a manila folder filled with printouts.
"Logan!" Shelby cried out, her entire face illuminating with terrifying hope. She stood up, the veil fluttering. "Logan, baby, you came! Tell them! Tell them Claire is lying! Tell them to give us our money back so we can get married tomorrow!"
Logan stood in the center of my trashed apartment, looking at the knife in the table, the shattered glass, and the woman wearing a veil over dirty sweatpants. The disgust on his face was absolute.
"I went to your mother's house this morning, Shelby," Logan said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "She wasn't there. But your dad was. George was sitting on the kitchen floor with a bottle of scotch and a box of old tax returns."
Shelby went completely still.
"He told me everything," Logan continued, his voice shaking with restrained fury. "He told me how your mother forged Grandma Evelyn’s signature to take out a second mortgage. He told me how you forged Claire's signature on a high-interest private loan application last month to cover the final payment on your Vera Wang gown."
"Logan, Mom made me do that—"
"Stop lying!" Logan roared. "My father is the district attorney for this county, Shelby! Did you really think you could involve my family in grand larceny and elder abuse and I would just smile and walk you down the aisle?"
He threw the manila folder onto the floor at her feet. Papers scattered across the rug—copies of forged loan applications, fraudulent credit lines, and bank transfers bearing her signature.
"The wedding is cancelled," Logan said, looking her directly in the eye. "My family has already issued a public statement to all two hundred guests. The deposits are gone. The ring is gone. And if you ever come near me, my parents, or Claire again, I will personally ensure you serve the maximum sentence allowed under state law."
Shelby stared at him, her mouth opening and closing like a fish pulled from the water. The delusion shattered. The reality of what she had destroyed finally crushed her.
Her fingers loosened. The kitchen knife clattered against the hardwood floor.
"Hands behind your back!" the officers moved in instantly, kicking the knife away and pinning Shelby to the floor. The cold steel of handcuffs snapped around her wrists.
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As they hauled her up, her veil snagged on the edge of the broken coffee table, ripping in half and leaving a torn strip of lace dangling in the dirt.
***
