Chapter 3 - Red Lights in the Rearview
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"What's taking so long?" Celeste’s sharp voice rang out from the hallway, her designer heels clicking closer against the floorboards.
Lila pulled away instantly, smoothing down her dress with frantic hands. "Don't tell," she begged in a terrified whisper.
Celeste appeared in the archway, her eyes darting between me and her daughter. "What are you two doing in here?"
"Just looking for ice," I lied, keeping my voice deadpan as I stood up. "Lila dropped her fork earlier. Wanted to make sure she was okay."
Celeste’s eyes narrowed, but she forced a wooden smile onto her face. "Dessert is served, Evan. Come back to the table."
For the next forty-five minutes, I sat at my brother's dining table, forcing down apple pie, smiling at my mother's jokes, and making polite conversation with a man I realized was a monster. The rage inside me felt like swallowing broken glass, but I knew if I reacted right there, Grant would use his security team to isolate Lila before I could get help.
At 9:40 p.m., I said my goodbyes. When I hugged Lila near the front door, she leaned her head against my coat.
"Are you coming back?" she whispered into the heavy wool.
"Yes," I murmured into her hair. "And next time, kiddo, I'm not leaving without you."
Grant stood ten feet away, watching us with a glass of scotch in his hand. He didn't say a word, just tracked my movement with cold, analytical eyes.
I walked out to my rental sedan, started the engine, and pulled out of the gated neighborhood into the falling Colorado snow. Five miles down the dark, winding mountain road, I pulled onto the unlit shoulder and put the car in park.
My hands were shaking so hard I could barely tap the screen of my phone.
I dialed Detective Marcus Reed. We had worked together three years ago on a public corruption story that brought down a city council member. He was sharp, relentless, and trusted no one.
He answered on the fourth ring. "Evan? It's late."
"Marcus, I need help," I blurted out, staring through the snow-caked windshield. "I'm in Denver. My seven-year-old niece just showed me massive physical trauma on her body. Severe abuse."
The line went quiet for two seconds. "Who did it?"
"My brother. Grant Whitaker."
Marcus's voice shifted instantly into professional gear. "Where is the child now?"
"She's still at his house."
"Then we move tonight. Stay where you are, send me your GPS coordinates, and—"
May you like
Marcus cut off. High beams swept across my rearview mirror. A black SUV had pulled up behind my car, stopping twenty feet away, blinding my cabin with white light.
I knew the grill. It was Grant’s Range Rover.
