Chapter 15 - Sirens in the Distance
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As the metal handcuffs clicked around Eleanor’s manicured wrists, she let out a blood-curdling shriek of outrage. She thrashed against the agents, her expensive silk dress twisting around her legs.
"Daniel! Daniel, do something!" she screamed at her son, who was standing near the cake table, paralyzed with fear. "Help your mother!"
An agent walked over to Daniel, pulling a third pair of handcuffs from his belt.
"Daniel Whitmore?"
Daniel didn't run. He didn't scream. He simply hung his head, held out his wrists, and allowed the agent to snap the cuffs into place. He looked at me one last time as he was led toward the front door.
"I'm sorry, Maya," Daniel whispered, his voice lost beneath the noise of the radio chatter and squawking sirens outside.
I didn't answer. I just watched as the three Whitmores were marched down the grand front steps of their mansion—the very steps where, three hours ago, Eleanor had sneered at my father's suit.
The news crews had arrived. Dozens of camera crews and reporters lined the driveway, their flashbulbs illuminating the night like strobe lights. They captured every second of Eleanor Whitmore being folded into the back of a black police cruiser, her face covered by her hands, her dignity scattered across the wet gravel.
They captured Richard Whitmore hanging his head in shame.
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And in the background of every single photograph taken that night, standing at the top of the grand estate stairs, was the bride.
I stood there in my stained, ruined gown, holding my father's arm, looking out over the flashing red lights.
