Chapter 2 - The Siren’s Wail
The red and white flashers washed over the limestone facade of the Vance estate in sickening, rhythmic pulses. Two paramedics vaulted out of the rig, their heavy black trauma bags slamming against their legs as they sprinted across the immaculate lawn toward the stone fountain.
"Ten-year-old female, blunt force trauma after a fifteen-foot drop onto rocks," I shouted, my voice raw and trembling as I hovered over Nola. "GCS is low. Shallow respiration. Possible skull fracture, right radius deformed, spinal cord status unconfirmed!"
The lead paramedic, a burly man with graying temples, gave me a sharp nod. "Good info, Mom. Back up just a foot for me so we can secure the cervical collar."
I stepped back, but I couldn't tear my eyes from my daughter’s pale, blood-smeared face. Her eyelids fluttered, showing only slivers of milky white. My chest felt caved in, as if the gravity that had pulled her down was currently crushing my own lungs.
Behind me, the sound of manicured garden gravel crunching under designer heels broke through the siren's hum.
"Officers, paramedics, please!" Rowena’s voice floated across the yard, smooth as silk and dripping with maternal sorrow. "It was an awful, tragic accident. The poor child has always been so clumsy, running around where she doesn't belong."
I whipped around, pure fury setting my blood on fire. "She didn't trip, Rowena! Sutton shoved her! Everyone heard it!"
Rowena didn't even look at me. She placed a manicured hand on the shoulder of the younger paramedic who was unloading the backboard. "My daughter-in-law is beside herself. Understandable shock. But we need to keep this quiet. There are high-profile guests inside."
"Ma'am, step aside," the paramedic said flatly, keeping his focus on Nola.
Declan finally stepped forward, his custom-tailored suit jacket unbuttoned, his silk tie loosened just enough to feign distress. He didn't look at Nola. He looked at the paramedics' badges, then at the two uniformed patrol officers who had just pulled up behind the ambulance.
"I’m Declan Vance," he told the officers in that commanding, aristocratic tone he used in boardroom takeovers. "This is a private medical emergency on private property. We have private transport on standby, but since county dispatch arrived first, we'll escort her to St. Jude’s. I want no sirens leaving the gate. No press."
"Declan, your daughter is unconscious!" I screamed, grabbing his lapel. "Stop worrying about the press! Stop covering for your sociopathic sister!"
He peeled my fingers off his jacket with chilling deliberation, his grip bruising my wrists. "Lower your voice, Elena. You're making a scene. Sutton is inside having an asthma attack because of your wild accusations."
"My wild accusations?" I choked. "Sutton admitted it! The photographer saw it!"
I turned to point at the balcony.
The photographer was gone. The balcony was empty.
"We're loading her now," the paramedic called out, sliding the backboard into the rig. "One parent in the back. Who’s riding?"
"I am," I said instantly, lunging toward the ambulance doors.
May you like
Declan didn't fight me for the seat. In fact, as the doors swung shut, his eyes met mine through the tinted glass—cold, calculated, and devoid of a single tear. He pulled his smartphone from his pocket, pressed it to his ear, and turned back toward the manor.
***
