Click.
I reached into my breast pocket. I pulled out my phone. I didn’t hide it. I held it up right in front of her face, my thumb resting on the red square button on the screen.
I stopped the recording.
Patricia’s cold, arrogant eyes darted to the glowing screen of the phone. The smugness vanished instantly, replaced by a sudden, sickening, and absolute realization of what had just happened. The color drained from her face so fast she looked like a corpse.
“What… what are you doing?” Patricia hissed, her voice suddenly trembling.
“I’m passing out the appetizers,” I said, my voice dropping the trembling facade, turning as cold and hard as a diamond.
I turned my head toward the large kitchen window that looked out over the front yard and the street. I looked directly at the unmarked black Ford Explorer parked across the street. I gave a single, sharp nod.
“Claire, delete that right now!” Sophie demanded, stepping forward, finally realizing the gravity of the situation. “You can’t record people in their own house!”
Within five seconds, the heavy, authoritative, window-rattling pounding on the front door silenced the upbeat party music completely.
“Police! Open the door!” a booming voice echoed through the foyer.
Patricia staggered backward, clutching the edge of the marble island to keep from collapsing, her eyes locked on me in sheer, unadulterated terror. The monster had finally met the trap.
Chapter 5: The Arrest of the Matriarch
The front doors were thrown open before the valet could even reach them.
Detective Miller and three uniformed police officers strode into the grand foyer, their heavy boots loud against the imported tile. The wealthy guests in the living room gasped in horror, instantly parting like the Red Sea, backing away from the authorities, their champagne glasses frozen in their hands.
Miller marched directly into the kitchen. He didn’t look at the expensive appetizers or the floral arrangements. He looked straight at my mother.
“Patricia Bennett,” Miller barked, his voice carrying the absolute, unforgiving weight of the law. He reached to his belt and pulled out a pair of heavy steel handcuffs. “You are under arrest.”
“No!” Patricia shrieked, her voice cracking into a panicked, high-pitched wail.
She dropped her crystal mimosa glass. It shattered against the floor, splashing sticky orange liquid and alcohol across her expensive designer shoes.
“You are being charged with felony child endangerment, tampering with a crime scene, and filing a false police report,” Miller recited loudly, ensuring every single high-society guest in the house heard the charges.
He turned to my sister, who was standing frozen in terror. “Sophie Bennett, you are under arrest as an accessory after the fact for assisting in the concealment of a crime scene.”
