Chapter 8
Back at the suburban house, the silence felt suffocating. Martha sat at the kitchen table, the blue cooler still resting near the base of the counter where the orange soda had stained the grout. Arthur paced back and forth across the checkered floor, his boots making an irritating, repetitive scraping sound. The bluster had completely drained from his posture; his shoulders were permanently rounded, and his breath came in shallow, wheezing gasps. He stopped pacing and slammed his palm against the laminate countertop, though the gesture lacked its former authority—it sounded weak and desperate.
"She’s bluffing," Arthur hissed, though his voice lacked conviction. "Elena was always dramatic. She’s just trying to scare me into backing down."
Martha looked up from the table, her expression tight with anxiety. The reality of Elena’s background as a top-tier prosecutor was finally penetrating her denial. "Arthur, she spent eight years putting people away for crimes far less documented than this," Martha said sharply, her voice rising in frustration. "She has cloud backups, audio files, and a timestamped record. And she didn't just walk out—she took your granddaughter away to build a legal wall around herself. We aren't dealing with a family disagreement anymore. We're dealing with a criminal investigation."
