Chapter 3
The corridor outside the master suite stretched endlessly, its walls lined with black-and-white portraits of austere ancestors whose judgmental eyes seemed to follow Beatrice as she was escorted toward the grand staircase. Officer Davis kept his hand lightly resting on her elbow, guiding her steps with a detached courtesy that felt more insulting than outright hostility.
"Keep moving," Davis murmured under his breath, just loud enough for Beatrice to hear over the soft click of his heels against the polished hardwood. "Don't look back at them. Trust me, making a scene down here won't help the kid."
Beatrice stopped abruptly near the landing, pulling her arm free from his grasp. She rubbed her sore elbow, glaring at the young officer. "You saw the burn, Davis. Or whatever your name is. You saw the smoke in that room. Are you just going to walk away and pretend an eight-year-old child gave herself a third-degree thermal injury with a hot curling iron?"
Davis sighed, running a hand over his short-cropped brown hair. He glanced back down the hallway to ensure Grant and Miller were still occupied inside the bathroom. "My hands are tied, Miss. You know how men like Grant Sterling operate in this county. He funds half the local precinct's community outreach programs. Every judge within fifty miles attends his charity galas. If I make an arrest without a signed warrant or a hospital admission report, I'll be directing traffic in the industrial district by morning."
"So wealth buys immunity for child abuse?" Beatrice hissed, her voice trembling with restrained fury.
"Wealth buys options," Davis corrected quietly. "And right now, your best option isn't getting yourself thrown in the back of a squad car for trespassing. If you really want to help that little girl, you need evidence that doesn't rely on your word against theirs. Because right now, in the eyes of the law, you're just a disgruntled employee with a termination notice in her personnel file."
Beatrice swallowed hard, the harsh truth of his words tasting like ash in her mouth. She reached into the pocket of her green skirt, her fingers brushing against her personal smartphone. The device was locked, but the screen flashed with a notification: a cloud backup sync completed just minutes before she heard Clara’s first scream.
"Thank you," Beatrice said stiffly, turning toward the sweeping staircase.
"Don't thank me yet," Davis muttered, stepping back into formation as heavy footsteps echoed from the master suite doorway.
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Grant emerged first, walking with the heavy, unhurried stride of a man accustomed to compliance. Behind him, Eleanor walked with her hand resting lightly on Clara’s shoulder, guiding the terrified child toward the private family elevator at the end of the hall. Clara’s eyes locked onto Beatrice one last time before the polished brass doors slid shut, sealing her away behind mahogany panels and security codes. Beatrice turned and walked down the stairs alone, her mind racing with a desperate plan.
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