Chapter 3 - THE WEB OF FABRICATIONS
"Step back! Keep your hands where we can see them!" the lead officer shouted, his voice instantly shattering the suffocating tension in the room.
Mason jumped backward as if scalded, raising his hands instantly, his face draining of all color. Uncle Greg froze on the couch, while Aunt Clara let out a shrill yelp. Only Eleanor remained completely still, her chin lifted high, her posture that of a queen enduring a minor inconvenience.
"Officers, thank God you're here," Eleanor said instantly, shifting her tone in a fraction of a second from menacing matriarch to fragile, terrified grandmother. "My son has suffered some sort of breakdown. He walked in here with that iron bar, threatening his younger brother and me."
The second officer, a younger woman with keen, observant eyes, looked directly at the tire iron still resting by my thigh.
"Sir, place the tool on the floor and step away," she commanded calmly.
I knelt slowly, laid the tire iron on the rug, and stood back up with my hands open and visible. "Officer, my name is David Vance. This is my property. I am the husband of Hannah Vance, who is currently admitted to St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital under the care of Dr. Mercer after a violent domestic assault occurred in this room three hours ago."
The lead officer pulled a small notepad from his pocket, his eyes darting to my face. "You're David Vance? Dispatch flagged this address. Dr. Mercer called in a priority domestic battery involving a pregnant victim."
"That is an absolute fabrication!" Eleanor stepped forward, her voice trembling with theatrical emotion. "My daughter-in-law has been suffering from severe prenatal psychosis! She became hysterical over dinner, threw herself beneath the table, and began screaming that we were trying to kill her! We had to physically restrain her to keep her from harming the unborn child! Look around this room—does this look like an assault took place?"
"It doesn't look like an assault," I countered, looking directly at the female officer, "because they spent the last two hours bleaching the floor to eliminate forensic evidence. When I left this house with my wife, there was blood on the floor, an overturned chair, and a plate intentionally loaded with fish bones shoved in front of her. Mason Vance," I pointed directly at my brother, "forcibly confiscated her mobile device to prevent her from dialing 911."
"That's a lie!" Mason sputtered, his voice cracking. "I never touched her phone!"
"Officer," I said, reaching into my breast pocket with deliberate slowness. "I took high-resolution, timestamped photographs of the dining room before anyone had the chance to touch a single dish. And right now, my phone is actively recording video of this room."
Eleanor’s mask slipped for an instant. Her eyes widened, the microscopic twitch of her jaw revealing the panic beneath her composure.
The officers looked at my screen, taking in the crystal-clear images: Hannah curled beneath the dark oak table, the plate of sharp bones, the smeared droplets on the pristine hardwood, Mason’s silhouette clearly visible in the background standing guard by the locked patio slider.
"Mr. Mason Vance," the female officer said, stepping toward him, her hand resting on her utility belt. "Empty your pockets onto the dining table. Right now."
"Officer, this is ridiculous—" Mason began.
"Do it now, sir."
Mason swallowed hard, glancing desperately at Eleanor. But Eleanor was staring at the wall, completely calculating her next move, offering him zero protection. Trembling, Mason reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his keys, a wallet, his own phone, and then—a sleek, rose-gold iPhone with a distinctive lavender floral case.
Hannah’s phone.
"She... she dropped it," Mason stammered, sweat breaking out across his forehead. "I was just keeping it safe for her—"
"Turn around and place your hands behind your back," the officer said, snapping a pair of steel handcuffs from her belt with practiced efficiency.
"Mom!" Mason shouted as the metal ratcheted around his wrists. "Mom, tell them! Tell them you told me to take it!"
"Mason, please calm down," Eleanor said smoothly, her voice ice-cold. "Cooperate with the officers. We will sort out this terrible misunderstanding through our legal counsel."
She threw him to the wolves without blinking. Mason stared at her, his jaw dropping in sheer disbelief as the younger officer escorted him toward the front door.
"Mrs. Eleanor Vance," the lead officer said, turning to my mother. "You will need to accompany us down to the precinct for formal questioning regarding the allegations of aggravated battery."
"I will do no such thing without my attorney present," Eleanor replied, her eyes narrowing. "And before you make a catastrophic mistake with your career, Officer, you should look at the financial documentation on this table. My daughter-in-law is an embezzler. She has stolen over forty thousand dollars from my family’s trust. What happened here tonight was an inquiry into grand larceny."
"Financial disputes are civil matters, ma'am," the officer replied bluntly. "Physical violence against an eight-month-pregnant woman is a felony. You can walk out to the cruiser willingly, or you can leave in restraints. The choice is yours."
Eleanor drew her cashmere shawl tighter around her shoulders, holding her chin high. She didn't look at Aunt Clara, who was now weeping openly on the couch, nor at Uncle Greg, who looked sick to his stomach. As she walked past me, she leaned in, her perfume—heavy, suffocating lavender—filling the space between us.
"You think you’ve won, David," she whispered, her voice venomous. "You have no idea what she’s been doing behind your back. When you find out the truth about that child, you will beg me on your knees to forgive you."
She walked out the front door under the escort of the police, the flashing red and blue lights painting the neighborhood in violent color.
I stood alone in the bleached dining room, the smell of chemicals turning my stomach. I walked over to the coffee table and picked up the papers Eleanor had left behind.
They were genuine bank statements from our joint savings account. Five separate wire transfers of eight thousand dollars each, sent over the last five months to an account held under the name Valence Capital LLC in Zurich, Switzerland.
And every single transfer had been authorized from Hannah's IP address.
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My hands began to shake. Was it possible? Could my mother's madness be rooted in an actual, devastating secret? Or was this web of deceit far more intricate than I could possibly imagine?
I slipped Hannah’s recovered phone from the dining table into my pocket and turned toward the door. I needed answers, and I was going to get them before the sun came up.
