Chapter 3
CHAPTER 4 — The Wooden Alibi
It was 9:30 a.m.
The streets of Westbridge were slick with ice, but the neighborhood where Arthur and Brooke lived was quiet.
It was a wealthy suburb.
Manicured lawns.
Three-car garages.
All paid for by Arthur’s tech job and Brooke’s endless credit card debt.
Debt that I now knew they were trying to solve by stealing my mother’s estate.
Four unmarked black vehicles pulled up to their driveway in total synchronization.
I stepped out of the lead vehicle.
Behind me, twelve state investigators wearing tactical vests filed out.
We didn't use sirens.
We didn't need a public spectacle.
We just needed the element of total surprise.
I walked up to the front door, the search warrant folded neatly in my coat pocket.
I didn't knock.
I rang the doorbell once, then signaled the tactical lead.
He raised the breaching ram.
Before he could swing, the door unlocked from the inside.
Arthur stood in the doorway, wearing a bathrobe, holding a mug of coffee.
He looked exhausted.
When he saw me standing there, surrounded by federal agents, his coffee mug slipped from his hand.
It shattered on the porch, hot liquid splashing across his bare ankles.
"Clara?" he stammered.
"What... what is this?"
I stepped past him into the foyer without asking permission.
"This is the consequence of your silence, Arthur."
"Execute the warrant," I ordered the team.
The agents flooded the house.
"Search the garage. Search the vehicles. I want every electronic device bagged and tagged."
Brooke came running down the sweeping wooden staircase.
She was wearing silk pajamas.
Her tiny, self-inflicted scratch was covered by a neat, sterile bandage.
"What the hell is going on?!" she shrieked.
"Arthur, call my uncle! Call Thomas right now!"
I turned to face her.
"Your uncle can't help you, Brooke."
"His phone has been confiscated by the Department of Justice, and he is currently sitting in an interrogation room in the capital."
Brooke stopped dead in her tracks on the bottom step.
The arrogance completely drained from her posture.
"You're lying," she whispered.
"I don't lie," I replied coldly. "I document."
"And right now, my team is documenting every piece of financial fraud hidden in this house."
Arthur grabbed my arm.
"Clara, please! You have to stop this! Mom attacked her!"
I looked down at his hand gripping my coat.
I didn't move.
I just stared at his fingers until he slowly let go.
"I saw the body camera footage, Arthur."
He blinked, confused.
"What footage? Thomas said the cameras malfunctioned."
"Thomas lied."
"I saw you sitting on the couch with a glass of whiskey while she shattered Mom's ribs."
Arthur's face went completely pale.
His knees buckled slightly.
He stumbled backward, falling onto the entryway bench.
"I... I couldn't stop her," he whispered, burying his face in his hands.
"We owe so much money, Clara. The bank was going to foreclose next week."
"Brooke said if we got medical power of attorney, we could sell Mom's house."
"It was just supposed to be a signature!"
Brooke shrieked from the stairs.
"Shut up, Arthur! Shut your mouth!"
"Take her outside," I told two agents.
They grabbed Brooke by the arms.
She fought them, kicking and screaming, her silk pajamas tearing as they dragged her through the front door and into a transport vehicle.
An agent walked in from the garage, carrying an evidence bag.
Inside the clear plastic was an aluminum baseball bat.
"Found it in the trunk of her Mercedes, ma'am," the agent reported.
"It's been wiped down with bleach, but there's still dried blood under the grip tape."
I looked at the bat.
The weapon that had broken my mother's wrist.
Then I looked back at my brother.
"Get up, Arthur."
He looked up at me, tears streaming down his face.
"Clara, please. I'm your brother."
"My brother died the moment he watched our mother bleed on the floor and did nothing to help her."
"Turn around and put your hands behind your back."
Arthur sobbed, but he complied.
The handcuffs clicked into place, echoing loudly in the massive, empty house.
May you like
The house they had sold their souls to keep.
The house they would never sleep in again.
