Chapter 2 - Unresponsive
I slammed the truck to a halt on the brick circular driveway, leaving the engine running and the high beams pointing directly at the massive mahogany front doors of the estate.
Before I could reach the stone steps, the heavy oak door swung open.
Vivian Waverly stood in the entryway, dressed in an immaculate velvet housecoat, her graying hair pinned back flawlessly. Her face was pale with fury, her dark eyes flashing behind thin gold-rimmed reading glasses.
Beside her stood Derek. He was wearing a silk robe over sweatpants, his hair tousled, his jaw set in a nervous, volatile line. His knuckles were raw and red.
“You have completely lost your mind, Thomas!” Vivian shouted over the sound of the rain, stepping out onto the covered porch to block the doorway. “You smashed through our private property! Grant is on the phone with the chief of police right now!”
I pushed past the threshold, stepping into the grand marble foyer. My wet boots left heavy, muddy prints across the polished white floor.
“Where is Emily?” I demanded, taking a step toward Derek.
Derek flinched, taking a half-step back behind his mother. “She’s in our room, Thomas! She’s fine! She had a panic attack and took her prescribed sleeping medication! You can’t just barge into our home at four in the morning like a lunatic!”
“She called me begging for help, Derek,” I said, my voice dropping into a register so low and dangerous that Derek stopped talking entirely. “If you don't step aside and let me see my daughter right now, I swear to God I will tear this house apart room by room.”
“She’s not leaving, Thomas!” Vivian said, stepping directly into my path, her chin raised, her expression turning into a cold, arrogant sneer. “She is Derek’s wife. She belongs in this family. We are handling her medical care internally with private doctors who actually know what they’re doing. You are an uneducated mechanic, and you have zero legal right to interfere in this household!”
She’s not leaving.
She said it with absolute, cold certainty—as if my child were a piece of inherited furniture or a financial asset locked away in a family vault.
I didn't answer her. I didn't argue. I looked past her toward the sweeping curved staircase that led to the second floor.
I shoved past Derek, ignoring his sudden shout of anger, and took the stairs three at a time.
“Get down here!” Derek yelled from behind me, his footsteps pounding up the carpeted steps behind me. “Thomas, stop!”
I reached the second-floor landing. A wide, carpeted hallway stretched out with half a dozen closed doors.
“Emily!” I roared, my voice echoing off the high ceilings. “Emily!”
At the far end of the hall, a door was slightly ajar. A thin strip of light spilled onto the floorboards.
I sprinted toward it, throwing the door open so hard the knob slammed through the drywall.
The master bedroom was in chaos. A bedside lamp was overturned on the floor, its glass shade shattered. A glass of water lay spilled on the nightstand beside three unlabelled prescription pill bottles.
And on the edge of the king-sized bed lay my daughter.
Emily was dressed in a oversized gray sweatshirt and dark sweatpants. Her head was sloped awkwardly against the wooden bed frame, her arms resting limp at her sides. Her eyes were closed, her face unnaturally pale, almost blue beneath the soft overhead lighting.
“Emily!” I rushed to her side, dropping to my knees on the thick rug.
I took her hands in mine. Her skin was freezing cold. Her pulse beneath her wrist was dangerously slow, a faint, sluggish thud that fluttered erratically against my fingertips.
When I gently pulled back the sleeve of her sweatshirt to check her pulse point, my stomach dropped into a abyss of pure terror.
Her forearm was covered in deep, yellowish-purple bruises—the distinct, undeniable shape of four fingers and a thumb pressed violently into soft flesh. Higher up near her elbow were two small, red puncture marks surrounded by dark blue swelling.
“What did you do to her?” I whispered, my voice shaking as I turned to face the door.
Derek was standing in the doorway, breathless, his hands shaking as he gripped the door frame. Vivian was right behind him, her face tight, her eyes scanning the room with calculated panic.
“She... she was hysterical, Thomas,” Derek stammered, his eyes darting toward the empty pill bottles on the nightstand. “She wasn't sleeping! She tried to run out into the storm without shoes! Dr. Miller came by earlier and gave her a sedative to keep her calm!”
“A sedative?” I stood up, lifting my daughter into my arms. She weighed almost nothing, her head flopping helplessly against my shoulder, her breathing shallow and raspy. “You injected my child with drugs to keep her locked in this room!”
“Put her down, Thomas!” Vivian commanded, taking a step into the room, her voice rising in pitched panic. “If you take her out of this house, we will have you arrested for kidnapping! Grant’s legal team will destroy you! You will lose your business, your home, everything you own!”
I looked down at Emily’s pale, lifeless face. She stirred slightly against my chest, letting out a tiny, weak whimper that sounded like a wounded animal.
I looked back up at Vivian and Derek.
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I didn't scream. I didn't raise my fist. The rage inside me was too big, too dark, and too terrifying for noise. It turned into a solid, ice-cold stone behind my ribs.
I wrapped my heavy denim jacket around Emily, pulled her securely against my chest, and walked straight toward them.
