Chapter 3 - The Ambush at Oak Park
The man hit the ground hard, gasping for air as my knee slammed into his chest, pinning him to the rain-slicked pavement. The heavy telephoto camera clattered across the alley.
"Who sent you?" I growled, pressing the point of my tactical knife just beneath his chin.
The man was young, barely twenty-five, wearing a cheap leather jacket and smelling strongly of stale cigarettes and energy drinks. He was terrified, his eyes wide as he looked up at me.
"Wait! Wait! Don't shoot!" he stammered, his hands thrown up in surrender. "I'm just a private investigator! I was hired! I swear!"
"Who hired you?" I demanded, tightening my grip on his collar.
"A guy named Mercer! Grant Mercer!" the kid yelled, trembling. "He paid me five hundred bucks cash to watch the house, take photos of who comes in and out, and text that message if you were alone!"
"What else did he tell you to do?"
"Nothing! I swear to God! Just watch you and report if you left or if anyone from the law showed up!" The kid was sobbing now. "He said you were his crazy sister-in-law who stole his family inheritance!"
I pulled his phone from his pocket, used his thumb to unlock it, and scrolled through his messages. There were dozens of texts from Grant, demanding real-time updates on my movements. One text stood out, sent just thirty minutes ago:
If she leaves the property, block the driveway with your car. We need her in that house at sunrise.
My eyes narrowed. "Why does he want me in the house at sunrise?"
"I don't know! I swear!" the kid cried. "He just said he and his wife were coming over at 6:00 AM with some legal paperwork and a notary, and they needed her isolated!"
I shoved the kid's phone into my pocket, grabbed him by the shirt, and yanked him to his feet. "Get in your car. Leave Oak Park. If I ever see your vehicle on this street again, I won't just take your camera—I’ll hand these text messages to the State Police for stalker harassment."
The kid didn't wait to be told twice. He scrambled into his sedan, threw the car in reverse, and sped out of the alley, his tires screeching against the wet pavement.
I stood in the alley, rain soaking through my shirt. It was 4:45 AM.
Grant and Vanessa weren't waiting for the legal system. They were moving now, desperate to force me into signing away my rights before Detective Reed or Harold Bennett could intervene.
I hurried back inside the house, locking the back door behind me. My mind raced through options. I could call 911, but without a physical attack already taking place, the response time for a verbal threat over text might take twenty minutes—more than enough time for a desperate man to do something irreversible.
I picked up my phone and dialed Harold Bennett.
"Emma?" Harold answered instantly. "Did you find anything?"
"Grant hired a private investigator to track me," I said quickly. "He’s coming here at 6:00 AM with Vanessa and a notary. They’re going to try to force me to sign a quitclaim deed."
"Do not open that door under any circumstances!" Harold shouted. "I’m calling Detective Reed right now. He’s in his cruiser in Maywood—he can be at your house in fifteen minutes!"
"Tell him to hurry," I said. "And Harold—tell him to bring backup."
I ended the call and went straight to Dad’s study. I grabbed the heavy bronze soldier statue from his desk—a symbol of his life's work—and set it near the front entryway table. If Grant Mercer thought he could waltz into my father's house and intimidate me, he was dead wrong.
At 5:40 AM, the first pale light of dawn began to bleed through the clouds over Oak Park.
A high-end luxury SUV pulled up to the curb in front of the house.
I stood behind the lace curtains of the living room window, watching as the doors opened. Grant Mercer stepped out, wearing a long dark coat. Beside him was Vanessa, elegant and unbothered in her cream cashmere coat, holding a leather folder and her gold fountain pen.
Behind them stepped a third figure: a thin, nervous-looking man carrying a notary seal and a briefcase.
They didn't ring the doorbell.
Grant reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy steel crowbar, and stepped onto the front porch.
"Vanessa, wait!" the notary stammered, pulling back. "You said she agreed to sign! I can't notarize a document if—"
"Shut up and hold the stamp!" Vanessa snarled, her voice sharp and merciless. "You take your ten thousand dollar cut and you keep your mouth shut, or I tell the State Board about your fraudulent stamps in Cook County!"
The notary went pale and fell silent.
Grant raised the crowbar and slammed it violently into the frame of the front door.
CRACK!
The heavy oak wood splintered.
"Grant! Stop!" I shouted from inside, pressing my back against the entry wall, my knife in my right hand. "The police are on their way!"
"The police don't care about a family inheritance dispute, Emma!" Vanessa’s voice yelled from the porch, cold and dripping with disdain. "Break it open, Grant! We don't have time!"
With a second violent thrust, Grant jammed the crowbar into the deadbolt lock and threw his entire body weight against it.
The heavy front door shattered inward, wood fragments exploding into the foyer.
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Vanessa stepped over the broken threshold, her eyes flashing with a terrifying, unhinged malice. Behind her, Grant charged into the hallway, his face twisted in rage.
"Sign the papers, Emma!" Vanessa screamed.
