Chapter 2
The sharp, authoritative tone of Derek’s declaration hung in the chapel, freezing the two police officers mid-step. Officer Miller, a veteran with tired eyes and a notched belt, rested his hand instinctively near his holster. The tension in the room thickened, shifting from familial grief to acute, palpable danger.
"Mr. Vance," Officer Miller said, his voice dropping into a professional register that brooked no argument. "The child made a specific allegation regarding physical violence and the confiscation of communication devices. Under standard protocol, we have to secure the premises and take preliminary statements."
Derek did not flinch. He kept his broad shoulders squared, his tall frame blocking their direct path to the white casket and, more importantly, to Eleanor. The fresh scratch on his face, half-hidden beneath the harsh overhead lights, seemed to pulse with a dull red anger. "My daughter is suffering from severe trauma," Derek replied, his voice unnervingly even. "She lost her mother less than forty-eight hours ago. She watched emergency personnel fail to revive Clara. Her mind is grasping at impossible fantasies because she cannot accept the finality of death. You are not going to traumatize her further with official interrogations in front of an open casket."
Eleanor hurried forward, her black lace heels clicking sharply against the marble. She reached out, her heavily jeweled fingers trembling as she clutched the sleeve of Derek’s black shirt. "He's right, Officers," she chimed in, her voice thin and breathy, perfectly projecting the image of a shattered grandmother. "Clara had been depressed for months. She locked herself in the master suite on Tuesday night. We tried everything. The noise Lily heard... it was just us trying to break the door down."
Lily shrank back a fraction of an inch, her small fingers tightening around the cloth doll until her knuckles turned white. She looked up at Derek, her wide blue eyes registering a deep, instinctual terror that contradicted the clean narrative her grandmother was weaving. She didn't speak again, but the silent panic etched across her young face spoke volumes to anyone willing to look past the polished surface of the Vance family facade.
In the background, Arthur remained motionless in his wheelchair. The elderly man tilted his head slightly, his clouded eyes staring blankly toward the stained-glass windows where the rain had turned into a steady, gray deluge. He made no sound, offering neither support nor contradiction to Eleanor’s hurried explanation.
Officer Vance, the younger partner, looked past Derek's shoulder at the grieving grandmother, then down at the silent child. He took a hesitant step forward, pulling a small leather notebook from his breast pocket. "We understand this is a difficult time, Mrs. Vance, but protocol demands we at least speak with the legal guardian away from the immediate scene. Mr. Vance, if you could step outside with us for a brief moment—"
"My wife is dead," Derek interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a dark, magnetic threat that made the younger officer hesitate. "My daughter is terrified. And this funeral will proceed exactly as planned. If you intend to disrupt a private memorial service without a warrant, I suggest you call your precinct captain right now and explain why you're harassing a grieving family."
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The officers exchanged another long, calculating look. The political connections of the Vance family were well known in this affluent county; a whispered word to the commissioner could derail a career faster than a missed bullet. Officer Miller gave a slow, reluctant nod, stepping back an inch. "We aren't leaving the building, Mr. Vance. We'll wait in the foyer."
Derek watched them retreat toward the heavy oak doors, his jaw clenching tightly. He turned back to Lily, a fleeting shadow crossing his features before he plastered a mask of paternal concern over his face, extending a hand down to the frightened child.
