Chapter 4 - The Midnight Breach
I didn't scream. Grandma had spent years teaching me that panic was a luxury only fools indulged in when the house was on fire.
I instantly shoved the black steel box back into the wall safe, slammed the iron door shut, and turned the dial to scramble the combination. I pushed the bookshelf back into place until it clicked flush against the wall.
Downstairs, heavy footfalls mounted the oak staircase, taking the steps two at a time.
"Chloe! I know you're up there!" Dad roared. His voice was slurred, ragged, stripped of all corporate sophistication. "Don't play games with me! Open the door!"
I sprinted to the master bedroom door, threw the heavy brass bolt into place, and dragged a heavy oak armchair across the floor, jamming it beneath the doorknob just as the brass handle began to rattle violently.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
The door shuddered in its frame.
"Open this damn door!" Dad screamed from the hallway, slamming his shoulder against the solid wood. "You think you're smart, don't you?! You think you and that old woman could write me out of my own family?! That money belongs to me!"
I backed away toward the bed, my hand diving into my coat pocket for my phone. My fingers were shaking so violently I almost dropped it onto the rug. I thumbed the screen and dialed 911.
"911, what is your emergency?" a dispatcher’s calm voice filled my ear.
"My name is Chloe Vance," I whispered frantically, keeping my voice low. "I am at 412 Elm Street. My father, John Vance, has broken into the house. He is intoxicated, aggressive, and trying to break down the bedroom door!"
"Stay calm, Chloe," the dispatcher said instantly. "I have your location. Units are already in the area. Detective Miller’s car is responding. Keep your line open."
BOOM!
A loud crack echoed through the room as the wood around the door frame began to splinter. Dad was using something heavy—a crowbar from the garage.
"John, stop!" my mother’s voice shrieked from the hallway. "John, the neighbors will call the police! We just need the black box!"
"Shut up, Eleanor!" Dad barked back. "If I don't get those ledgers by morning, Victor's men are going to burn my office to the ground! You want to live on the street?! You want to lose the Mercedes?!"
Through the splintering hole near the lock, I saw my father’s red, bloodshot eye staring into the room.
"Chloe," he whimpered, his voice suddenly shifting from rage to a sickening, manipulative pleading. "Sweetheart... please. You don't understand what's happening. I'm your father. I protected you your whole life. I just need the black box. Give me the box, and I'll leave. I'll give you half the estate. Just open the door!"
"You didn't protect me, Dad," I said, standing ten feet away, holding my phone tight against my ear. "You left Grandma to die alone in an operating room because you were too lazy to drive thirty minutes to the hospital."
"She was eighty years old!" Dad screamed, his rage exploding anew as he slammed the crowbar into the lock once more. "She had her life! I have a business to run! I have status!"
CRASH!
The heavy oak lock gave way. The door burst inward, knocking the heavy armchair aside.
Dad stumbled into the bedroom, holding a rusted iron crowbar in his right hand. His tie was loosened, his hair disheveled, his eyes wild with a terrifying, unhinged desperation. Mother stood behind him in the hallway, covering her mouth with trembling hands.
Dad took three heavy strides toward me, raising the crowbar. "Where is the box, Chloe?! Where did she put it?!"
Before he could take another step, red and blue lights exploded through the rain-slicked windows, painting the bedroom walls in a dizzying strobe of emergency colors.
Sirens wailed in the driveway outside, screeching to a halt.
"POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR!" heavy voices shouted from the ground floor.
Dad froze. The crowbar slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor with a deafening sound. He looked at the window, then back at me, his face collapsing into absolute ruin.
Footfalls slammed up the stairs. Four uniformed officers and Detective Miller burst into the bedroom with weapons drawn.
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"JOHN VANCE! ON THE GROUND! NOW!" Detective Miller barked.
Dad didn't fight. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the rug, crying like a child as the officers forced his arms behind his back and clicked the steel handcuffs around his wrists.
