Sarah Jenkins did not waste time. She opened her folder on the rolling tray table beside my bed, revealing color printouts of the livestream stills, crime scene photos of the broken walking stick, and an emergency order of protection.
“I’ve already had Judge Alvarez sign an ex-parte emergency restraining order,” Jenkins stated, her voice crisp and authoritative. “Trent is barred from coming within one thousand feet of you, your hospital, your future residence, and the child upon delivery. Furthermore, I’ve frozen Trent’s individual accounts under the Victim Protection and Restitution Act to prevent him from moving assets offshore.”
“Richard will try to liquidate,” Eli noted, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “He’s got shell companies tied to commercial real estate in Wilmington.”
Jenkins smiled—a cold, razor-sharp expression that belonged to an apex predator. “Let him try. I’ve already contacted the Department of Financial Services. When Nicole livestreamed that assault, she didn’t just record a domestic battery; she inadvertently captured Richard in the background sitting at the table, opening an offshore ledger on his laptop while your husband struck you. Our forensic tech team zoomed in on the high-res frames. Richard Vance was transferring eighty thousand dollars out of Claire’s trust fund—the one her grandmother left her—into a Cayman holding company while the assault took place.”
A cold shudder ran through me. “My grandmother’s trust? Trent told me that money was locked in a long-term CD until I turned thirty-five.”
“Trent lied,” Jenkins said plainly. “They forged your signature on a power of attorney six months ago. We found the notary stamp belonging to Richard’s legal secretary. She cracked the moment two detectives knocked on her door an hour ago. She’s already signing a full confession in exchange for immunity.”
“Grand larceny, wire fraud, and aggravated exploitation,” Eli murmured, a dark satisfaction curling the corners of his mouth. “The old man didn’t just watch the beating. He was stealing her inheritance while it happened.”
“Precisely,” Jenkins nodded. “So while Richard thinks he’s coming to court on Monday to bail out his sociopathic son, he’s actually walking into a joint federal and state indictment. By midday tomorrow, the Vance family name will be toxic in every courtroom in this commonwealth.”
Just then, my hospital phone began to ring. The screen flashed: *RESTRICTED CALL.*
Eli walked over, unhooked the receiver, and pressed the speakerphone button without saying a word.
“Claire!” Helen’s shrill, panicked voice exploded through the tiny speaker. “Claire, pick up the phone, you ungrateful little bitch! You need to drop these ridiculous charges immediately! Richard is having chest pains, Trent is sitting in a holding cell with common criminals, and Nicole’s college sorority just expelled her because of that stupid video! Do you hear me? You are destroying our lives over a marital spat!”
Eli leaned over the microphone. “Helen.”
Silence fell over the line, sudden and suffocating.
“E-Eli?” Helen stuttered, her bravado faltering.
“This call is being recorded directly to an encrypted server at the prosecutor’s office,” Eli said in a voice as cold as deep space. “You just committed witness tampering and harassment while under pre-trial monitoring. Look out your front window, Helen.”
“What… what are you talking about?”
“Look out the window,” Eli commanded.
Through the phone, we heard the faint wail of approaching sirens, growing rapidly louder.
“That’s the county sheriff’s department,” Eli said calmly. “They have an arrest warrant for felony witness intimidation and conspiracy to commit wire fraud. Don’t bother calling Richard. He’s about to be detained at his office.”
Eli hung up the phone. A heavy silence descended on the hospital room, broken only by the steady, beautiful rhythm of my unborn son’s heart beating against the monitor.
