Chapter 2
The heavy oak door swung inward with a slow, agonizing creak, pushed open by a tall police detective holding a leather notebook.
Detective Vance stepped into the bright kitchen, his trench coat smelling faintly of rain and cheap menthol cigarettes.
He didn't look at Julian, nor did he acknowledge Clara, who was still clutching the shivering little girl in the yellow dress.
Vance's sharp eyes scanned the pristine marble countertops, lingering for a fraction of a second on the dented wooden baseball bat lying near the island.
“Mr. Sterling, I’m Detective Vance,” the man said, his voice flat and devoid of any professional warmth. “Your wife has quite a different story about what happened here today.”
Julian stood up slowly, smoothing down the front of his black suit jacket with deliberate, calculated movements.
“My wife is mentally unstable, Detective,” Julian said, pitching his voice to sound steady, reasonable, and deeply aggrieved. “As you can clearly see, she attacked our household staff and our daughter in a psychotic rage.”
Clara pulled Lily onto her lap, wrapping her apron tighter around the child’s small frame while watching Julian with intense suspicion.
“Is that right, Miss Miller?” Vance asked, shifting his gaze downward to fix Clara in a heavy, uncompromising stare. “Did Mrs. Sterling attack you unprovoked with a baseball bat?”
Clara opened her mouth, the lie resting heavily on the tip of her tongue, ready to protect the family that paid her wages.
She looked at Julian’s manicured hands, noting the way his knuckles were white, warning her of the consequences of speaking the truth.
“She… she came in screaming,” Clara began, her voice trembling with a terrifying realism that wasn't entirely an act. “She said we destroyed her life.”
Vance flipped open his leather notebook with a sharp snap, pulling a silver pen from his breast pocket.
“And what life would that be, exactly?” Vance asked, walking toward the pantry and resting his hand on the slightly ajar door. “Mrs. Sterling was screaming about a child, Mr. Sterling. A child who apparently doesn't share your last name.”
Julian stepped forward, placing himself squarely between the detective and the pantry entrance with practiced agility.
“That is a private family matter, Detective, one born of grief and paranoia after our miscarriage two years ago,” Julian said, his voice dropping into a soothing baritone.
Vance looked down at Julian, a faint, cynical smile playing at the corner of his weathered mouth.
May you like
“Maybe so,” Vance murmured, stepping past Julian with surprising speed and pulling the pantry door wide open.
Inside, resting on the bottom shelf next to a box of baking soda, lay a bloodstained envelope marked with Julian's private stamp.
