Chapter 3 - The Arrest in Oakridge
By 8:00 PM, Emma was resting quietly on my sofa under the care of Aunt Karen—my mother's younger sister, and the only member of my extended family who had ever been honest about Lorraine’s manipulative nature.
"Go to Oakridge, Clara," Aunt Karen said, sitting on the edge of the sofa and stroking Emma’s hair. "I’ll stay right here with her. Don't let Lorraine wiggle her way out of this."
I drove my Civic to my sister’s neighborhood in Oakridge—an affluent suburban subdivision of stone mansions and manicured lawns.
When I turned down Oakridge Lane, two police cruisers were already parked in Lorraine’s brick driveway, their blue strobe lights painting the manicured bushes in violent color.
My mother’s sedan was parked in the driveway as well.
I parked down the street, stepped out into the cool night air, and walked toward the house.
As I reached the sidewalk near the front lawn, the front door swung open.
Lorraine was being led out by Officer Miller and Officer Vance. She was wearing a crisp beige sweater and white trousers, but her wrist links were locked firmly behind her back in steel handcuffs.
My mother, Eleanor Vance, was running down the front steps behind them, waving her arms hysterically.
"Officer, this is a complete misunderstanding!" my mother screeched, her voice cracking in the quiet neighborhood air. "Lorraine is a school board trustee! She is a respected member of this community! She would never hurt a child!"
"Ma'am, step back from the officers," Officer Vance warned, turning his body to block my mother’s path.
"Clara?!" my mother suddenly spotted me standing on the sidewalk. She sprinted toward me, her face pale with rage, grabbing my arm. "Clara! What did you do?! Did you call the police on your own sister?!"
I pulled my arm out of my mother's grip with such force that she stumbled back a step.
"She hit Emma, Mom," I said, my voice dead, low, and terrifyingly calm.
"She didn't hit her!" Mom shouted, her eyes wild with panic. "Lorraine told me what happened! Emma threw a tantrum! Lorraine was just trying to restrain her! The vase broke by accident!"
"I have the photo, Mom," I said, stepping closer to her. "Lorraine sent a picture of the broken vase to Mark. But she forgot that the china cabinet reflected her raising her hand and slapping Emma across the face."
My mother froze. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
For a fraction of a second, a flicker of absolute horror crossed her eyes—not horror at what Lorraine had done, but horror that Lorraine had been caught.
Lorraine was being loaded into the back of the police cruiser. She turned her head, looking at me through the open window. Her face wasn't crying. It wasn't remorseful.
Her eyes were fixed on me with a cold, toxic hatred that made my skin crawl.
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"You’re going to regret this, Clara," Lorraine sneered as the officer pushed her head down into the backseat. "You’ve ruined this family."
"You ruined yourself, Lorraine," I called back as the officer slammed the cruiser door shut. "And you will never touch my daughter again."
