Chapter 2 - The Iron Lock
The sound of sirens began as a faint, metallic wail in the distance, cutting through the hot Phoenix air and growing louder with every passing second.
Inside the apartment, panic had completely taken over Carmen’s guests. The twenty women who had been drinking my wine and eating my food five minutes ago were now desperately shoving their feet into their shoes at the entryway, knocking over coats, spilling purses, and trying to escape before the blue lights hit the street.
"Get out!" I shouted into the hallway, my voice echoing off the high ceilings like a thunderclap. "Every single one of you! Step outside and stay on the sidewalk until the police arrive! If anyone tries to leave the property, I will hand the security camera footage from the lobby directly to the officers!"
The front door slammed repeatedly as the women trampled over each other to get into the elevator.
In the kitchen, only three people remained: myself holding Olivia, Jessica leaning against the counter for support, and Carmen, who was leaning against the stove, breathing heavily, her eyes darting frantically toward the hallway.
"Zayden... my sweet boy," Carmen stammered, her hands coming up in a placating gesture. Her tone had completely changed; the sharp, cruel edge was replaced by the pathetic, sniveling voice she used whenever her bank account was empty. "You don't understand. Olivia is confused! She’s five years old, Zayden! You know how children lie when they’re under pressure! I didn't take anything from Jessica!"
"Where is the key, Carmen?" I asked.
"There is no key! It’s just an old jewelry box from Baltimore! My mother’s things!"
I didn't waste time arguing. I carried Olivia out of the kitchen, taking Jessica by her good elbow, and led them into our master bedroom across the hall. I set Olivia down on our soft king-sized bed, pulled a clean wool blanket over her shoulders, and turned to Jessica.
"Sit with her," I said softly, brushing a strand of wet hair from Jessica’s face. "The paramedics are here. I hear them in the elevator."
Jessica grabbed my hand. Her fingers were trembling violently, her burned skin warm to the touch. "Zayden... the papers in her drawer... she forced me to sign them six months ago. When you were on that business trip in Seattle. She said... she said she had contacts in the court system. She said if I didn't sign, she’d report me for child endangerment and take Olivia away from us."
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, my heart breaking all over again. "Jessica, why didn't you call me?"
"She took my phone every time you left town!" Jessica sobbed, hiding her face in her hands. "She changed the router password! She told the front desk staff that I had severe anxiety and wasn't allowed to leave the building without her! Every time you called, she stood over me with her hand on Olivia’s arm!"
A heavy knock echoed at the open front door, followed by the authoritative voice of a Phoenix police officer:
"Police! Phoenix PD! Is anyone inside?"
I stepped out into the hallway. Two uniformed officers were standing in the entryway, their hands resting near their holsters, while two paramedics carrying heavy red medical bags pushed past them.
"In here!" I called out. "The injuries are in the bedroom and kitchen!"
The paramedics moved swiftly into the master bedroom, immediately attending to Jessica and Olivia. The primary officer, a tall man with a dark mustache named Officer Miller, walked up to me, taking out a small black notebook.
"Are you Zayden Ferris?" Miller asked.
"Yes. I made the call."
"Where is the suspect?"
Before I could point, Carmen emerged from her bedroom down the hall. She was carrying a heavy leather handbag, her coat wrapped tightly around her, walking briskly toward the front door as if she were simply leaving for a casual walk.
"Hold on a minute, ma'am," Officer Miller said, stepping into her path.
"Officer, thank goodness you’re here!" Carmen burst into loud, dramatic tears, clutching her heart with one manicured hand. "My son has had a nervous breakdown! He’s been working too hard, and he came home and started smashing things! He attacked me! Look at my arm!"
She pulled up her red sleeve, showing a faint red mark—likely from when she had stumbled against the kitchen counter.
"He pushed his own sixty-two-year-old mother against the counter!" she sobbed. "His wife is unstable, Officer! She burns herself on purpose because she can't handle taking care of the house! I’ve been trying to protect my granddaughter from both of them!"
Officer Miller didn't budge. He looked at me, then back at Carmen.
"Sir," Miller said to me, "the paramedics are currently treating a five-year-old child with second-degree burns on her hands and forearms. Care to explain how a five-year-old gets second-degree burns from an 'unstable' mother?"
"She was forced to stand on a plastic stool and wash grease pans with boiling water for twenty people," I said, my voice dead calm. "My mother threatened to starve her if she didn't finish."
"Lies! Pure lies!" Carmen screamed.
"Officer," I continued, ignoring her shrieks. "My daughter stated that my mother is holding stolen legal documents belonging to my wife inside a locked drawer in her room. Documents my wife was forced to sign under coercion and threats."
Officer Miller turned his gaze toward the hallway leading to Carmen’s room.
"Ma'am," Miller said, his tone shifting from polite to stern. "We’re going to need you to step back into the living room and sit down. Officer Davis, stay with her."
The second officer stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Carmen’s shoulder.
"Get your hands off me!" Carmen shrieked, thrashing against his grip. "You have no right! This is my son’s apartment! I live here!"
"You live here under my permission, Carmen," I said, stepping right up to her face. "And as of this exact second, your permission is revoked."
I walked down the hall to her bedroom. The door was wide open. In the corner sat a heavy walnut dresser. The bottom drawer was secured with a heavy steel clasp and a brass padlock—an absurd, industrial addition to a residential piece of furniture.
"Where’s the key, Carmen?" Officer Miller asked, standing behind me.
"I lost it months ago!" Carmen yelled from the living room. "There’s nothing in there! Just old family photos!"
I didn't wait for her to produce a key. I walked into the utility closet near the hallway, pulled out a sixteen-ounce claw hammer, and walked back into the bedroom.
"Sir, wait for forensics—" Miller started to say.
I swung the hammer with everything I had.
CRACK.
The brass lock sheared off the wood with a spray of splinters. I jammed the claw of the hammer into the gap, leaned back, and forced the drawer open.
Inside the drawer lay three things: a thick manila folder, a small black digital audio recorder, and a stack of unopened letters addressed to my wife from an estate law firm in California.
I pulled out the manila folder and opened it under the bedroom light.
The first page was a signed power of attorney document granting Carmen Ferris full legal control over Jessica’s personal assets, medical decisions, and custody rights regarding Olivia.
The second page was a death certificate.
It was the official death certificate of Jessica’s estranged father, who had passed away eight months ago in San Diego. Attached to it was a court notice confirming that Jessica Ferris was the sole beneficiary of an estate valued at $2.4 million.
My breath caught in my throat.
I stared at the paper, then at the unopened letters from the probate court.
Carmen hadn't just moved into my house to live off my salary. She had uncovered Jessica’s inheritance, kept it hidden from both of us, abused my wife into submission, and used forced legal documents to prepare to claim the money for herself.
I turned around, holding the thick folder, and walked back into the living room where my mother was sitting on the sofa, flanked by Officer Davis.
May you like
I threw the folder onto the coffee table in front of her.
"Two point four million dollars, Carmen," I said, my voice shaking with a rage so intense it felt like fire in my veins. "You tortured my wife and burned my daughter for two point four million dollars."
