Chapter 3 - The Wall of Pretense
I stood up so fast my chair screeched loudly against the floor.
"Get out," I said. My voice was no longer shaking. Something inside me—the scared, obedient girl who had spent thirty years bowing to Arthur and Eleanor Vance—had snapped into dust the second I watched that video footage.
My father took a step into the room, raising a hand in a placating gesture. "Rachel, don't be emotional. I spoke to Dr. Aris in the hallway. Emma is going to be fine. It’s a minor concussion and some superficial skin irritation. We have arranged for a private plastic surgeon from Chicago to come in tonight to handle any minor scarring."
"Superficial?" I stepped around the table until I was standing two feet from him. "Her skull is fractured, Dad! She has second-degree burns across her face! She was unconscious for twenty minutes!"
"It was a tragic home accident," my father said smoothly, leaning in close, dropping his voice into a low, coercive whisper. "Vanessa was transferring hot food, she tripped on the rug, and the pan slipped from her hand. It was an unfortunate sequence of events, Rachel. If you go around making wild accusations to hospital staff, you will destroy your sister's career. You will ruin Lily’s future. Do you want your niece growing up with her mother in prison?"
I stared at him, my stomach turning sickeningly.
"Lily's future?" I whispered, tears of pure disbelief burning my eyes. "What about Emma's future? What about my daughter?"
"Emma is four!" my father snapped softly, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp glint of impatience. "She won't even remember this in six months unless you turn it into a circus! I am your father, Rachel! I have supported you and that child since your husband walked out on you three years ago! Who pays for your apartment? Who pays for your health insurance? I do!"
"Not anymore, Mr. Vance," Detective Lopez said, stepping between us, her hand resting firmly on the butt of her holstered firearm.
My father turned his icy blue eyes onto the detective, assessing her badge and suit with practiced corporate disdain. "Officer, this is a private family matter. I am Arthur Vance, managing partner at Vance, Sterling & Cole. I suggest you step outside while I discuss this with my daughter."
"Mr. Vance," Detective Lopez replied, her voice completely deadpan, "you are currently standing in an active police investigation scene. I am Detective Lopez, SVU. And as of thirty seconds ago, you are officially a person of interest in an ongoing investigation regarding child endangerment and evidence tampering."
My father let out a dry, condescending laugh. "Evidence tampering? Don't be ridiculous. I haven't touched a thing."
"Your wife sent a text message instructing your daughter Vanessa to 'handle' the child," Lopez said, pulling out a set of steel handcuffs from her belt. "And we have high-definition video from your kitchen server showing your daughter throwing a cast-iron skillet at a four-year-old child, while you washed a cup and ignored the victim."
My father's face went completely grey. The smooth, invincible composure he had maintained for forty years as a high-powered trial lawyer shattered in a single fraction of a second.
"What... what video?" he stammered, his eyes darting wildly to my phone on the table.
"The Cloud-Sentry feed you forgot to take offline before coming here," I said, stepping up beside Detective Lopez. "The feed I just surrendered to the police."
"Rachel..." my father breathed, his voice suddenly losing its authoritative boom, shrinking into something thin and terrified. "Rachel, think about what you're doing. If Vanessa is arrested, the firm... the family reputation... your mother’s heart condition..."
"My mother doesn't have a heart," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "And neither do you."
Detective Lopez turned my father around and pushed his arms behind his back. The metal handcuffs clicked shut with two sharp, metallic snaps that echoed down the quiet hospital corridor.
"Arthur Vance, you are under arrest for obstruction of justice and failure to render aid to a minor," Lopez said, reading him his rights as she led him out the door.
My father didn't look back at me. As he was marched down the hallway past nurses and patients, his two associates hurried after him, pulling out their cell phones in a panic.
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I stood in the center of the room, my hands cold, my chest heaving, as the reality of what I had just done settled over me.
I had declared war on my family. And there was no going back.
