Chapter 1 - The Blood On The Porch
The sterile odor of surgical antiseptic stung my nostrils, doing little to mask the cold, metallic scent of my own blood. Every breath sent a jagged spasm through my temple down into my collarbone. Dr. Evelyn Hart worked with steady, practiced hands, calling out clinical terms to the nursing staff while Wyatt’s fingers remained locked around mine like an anchor in a raging sea. He looked pale under the buzzing fluorescent tubes of the trauma bay, his blue denim shirt stained dark where he had caught me against the lawn.
""Her skull took a direct impact, but the cranial vault held,"" Dr. Hart said softly, her voice deliberately calm to soothe the panic pulsing in the room. ""The laceration is deep across the right brow, and the cheekbone has a hairline fracture. We will need sixteen stitches to close the dermal tear, and plastic surgery will evaluate the wound once the primary swelling subsides. Sadie, look straight ahead for me. Can you count my fingers?""
I blinked through blurred, watery vision. ""Three,"" I whispered, my voice sounding like gravel scraped against pavement.
""Good. Reflexes are responding,"" she said, nodding to a technician who immediately began preparing the local anesthetic. ""You're going to feel a sharp sting here, sweetie.""
Wyatt brought my hand up to his lips, kissing my knuckles. ""I'm right here. Don't look away from me."" His voice broke on the final syllable, revealing the absolute horror burning behind his chest. ""I should have knocked your father into the dirt the second he picked up that masonry block. I shouldn't have waited. I shouldn't have tried to reason with him.""
""You couldn't have known, Wyatt,"" I managed to murmur, wincing as the cold needle bit into the swollen skin above my brow. ""Nobody imagines their own father swinging a brick at their head.""
Across the trauma bay, Detective Aaron Beckett pushed through the swinging double doors, holding an evidence bag containing my father’s discarded work gloves and the heavy, jagged piece of red brick. Beckett was a tall man in his late forties with tired, hard eyes that had clearly seen the worst human depravity. He walked straight over to Wyatt and showed his badge.
""Mr. Coleman, Ms. Hayes. I've taken initial statements from your witnesses outside the residence,"" Detective Beckett said, pulling out a small spiral notebook. ""The electrician, Mr. Miller, was remarkably thorough. He kept his dashboard camera running while parked in the driveway. The entire assault—from your father lunging off the steps to your mother laughing when you went down—is captured on high-definition video with full audio.""
The air in my chest turned to lead. ""My mother laughed on camera?""
Beckett’s jaw tightened. ""She cheered, Ms. Hayes. Her exact words were recorded clearly: 'Now see if he still looks twice at her broken face.' Your sister Melanie was standing on the porch, adjusting her lipstick and asking your father if he got blood on her designer heels. We placed your father, Richard Hayes, in cuffs at the scene. He is being booked at the county precinct right now for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, attempted manslaughter, and reckless endangerment. We also took your mother, Linda, and your sister downtown for questioning as accessories.""
""Keep them locked in a cage,"" Wyatt spat, his grip tightening around my fingers. ""They shouldn't breathe free air after what they did.""
""The magistrate set a preliminary bond hearing for tomorrow morning, but there's another detail,"" Beckett said, glancing down at his notes. ""The electrician stated that before the squad arrived, an older gentleman walked out of the side entrance of the estate. He was carrying a brown leather briefcase and got into a private sedan before my cruisers blocked the drive. Did you have a guest inside the home, Sadie?""
I thought back to the pale face I had seen behind the living room curtain right before the paramedics lifted my gurney. The frail, trembling hand pressed against the glass. ""No. My parents never allow guests into the east wing of the manor. That section has been locked with padlocks since my grandfather Arthur passed away ten years ago. They always told everyone it was condemned due to dry rot.""
Wyatt reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the small, sealed ivory envelope that the hospital volunteer had handed him minutes prior. ""A man stopped by the triage desk downstairs and asked for Sadie Hayes. He gave this to the receptionist and told her to hand it directly to me before disappearing out the ambulance bay.""
Detective Beckett leaned forward as Wyatt broke the wax seal. Inside was an embossed business card for Samuel Grayson, Senior Partner at Grayson, Vance & Sterling Trust Attorneys, located in downtown Chicago.
Flipped on its back, written in shaky, archaic fountain-pen ink, were six words: Ask about your grandfather’s final will.
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""Grayson and Vance?"" Beckett muttered, rubbing his chin. ""Arthur Hayes used that firm forty years ago when he built Hayes Logistics into a multi-million-dollar freight enterprise. But according to county probate records, your grandfather died intestate. Richard claimed Arthur had dementia and never executed a valid testamentary deed. Your parents inherited the entire ninety-acre estate and the company by default.""
""My grandfather never had dementia,"" I whispered, the numbness from the lidocaine spreading over my cheek, replacing sharp agony with a cold, terrifying clarity. ""He was sharp until the day his heart stopped. And he despised my father.""
