Chapter 9 - The Ranting Man at the Door|
“Open the damn door, Margaret! I know you’re in there, you crazy bitch!” Brandon roared from the front porch, kicking the bottom of the heavy mahogany door.
I motioned for Emily to go upstairs to the master bedroom, lock the door, and stay away from the windows.
Once she was safe, I walked over to the entryway and activated the security monitor. Brandon looked utterly deranged. His designer suit was unbuttoned and stained, his hair was a wild mess, and his eyes were bloodshot and wide with manic panic.
I hit the intercom button, keeping my voice smooth and deadpan.
“You’re currently violating a court-issued restraining order, Brandon. The police have already been dispatched.”
“You ruined my life!” he screamed into the camera lens, pointing a trembling finger at the speaker. “My mistress dumped me! My mother's company is bankrupt! The loan sharks are threatening to break my legs by midnight! You have to give me access to the trust fund right now, or I swear to God I’ll burn this whole house down!”
“Your financial problems are not my concern, Brandon,” I replied through the speaker. “You brought this upon yourself.”
“Open the door!” he shrieked, completely losing what little sanity he had left.
He lunged toward our decorative garden bed, picked up a heavy slate paving stone, and smashed it violently against the front window glass.
The heavy tempered glass shattered into a spiderweb pattern but held firm, instantly triggering the mansion’s high-decibel security alarm. Piercing sirens blared across the estate, echoing into the night sky.
Before Brandon could swing the stone a second time, two police cruisers tore up our driveway with their red and blue lights flashing. Armed officers burst out of their vehicles, drawing their weapons and screaming for Brandon to drop the rock and get on the ground.
Brandon tried to fight back, screaming like a lunatic, but three officers tackled him into the muddy lawn, pinning his arms behind his back and snapping heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists.
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I stepped onto the porch, watching silently as they dragged the bruised, screaming man toward the back of the police car.
“Give my regards to your mother, Brandon,” I murmured softly as the doors slammed shut.
