Chapter 8 - Sirens in the Night
The blinding red and blue flashing lights of the police cruisers painted the modern mansion in harsh, rhythmic strokes, cutting through the darkness of the backyard. The wail of the sirens died down to a low, humming purr, but the tension on the patio reached a fever pitch. Two uniformed officers burst through the side gate, their flashlights cutting erratic beams across the pool area, the wet grass, and the shattered porcelain vase.
“Freeze! Nobody move!” the lead officer shouted, resting a hand heavily on his holster as he took in the grotesque tableau: Julianne pinned to the ground by a bleeding David, Eleanor kneeling with a lifeless baby wrapped in a soaked white blanket, and Clara standing calmly nearby with her hands clasped in front of her wet gray uniform.
Eleanor clutched the baby tighter, her voice breaking as she stood up unsteadily. “Officer, thank God. You need to help him. We pulled him from the deep end just now. He’s not breathing!”
The second officer immediately rushed forward with a medical kit, dropping to his knees beside Eleanor and pulling the heavy, wet blanket away to begin infant CPR. His face fell grimly within seconds as he checked for a pulse and shook his head at his partner.
David shoved himself off Julianne, stumbling backward until his back hit the glass sliding door. Julianne didn’t try to run; she simply remained lying on the wet flagstone, staring up at the flashing red lights overhead with a vacant, terrifying grin.
“She did it,” Julianne whispered, pointing a blood-streaked finger directly at Clara. “The maid. She drugged my tea, she took my real child, and she threw him into the water to frame me for murder.”
The lead officer stepped toward Clara, his flashlight beam pinning the young woman in a harsh, glaring circle. “Is that true, miss? What’s your name?”
Clara didn’t flinch under the officer’s intense scrutiny. She straightened her damp apron with slow, deliberate movements, her breathing entirely steady. “My name is Clara Hayes, Officer. And Mrs. Thorne is half-right. She did drug her own tea—every single night for the past three months to cope with her postpartum psychosis. I have the medical logs right here.”
Clara reached deliberately into her other pocket—the dry one—and pulled out a crisp, sealed manila envelope, holding it out toward the stunned police officer.
May you like
Eleanor stared at Clara in absolute horror, realizing in that exact moment that the maid hadn’t just stumbled into a nightmare; she had meticulously stage-managed every single second of it.
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