Chapter 2 - The Lie at the Precinct
I left Noah at the hospital under the armed protection of two of my senior security contractors and drove directly to the 4th District Police Precinct. I knew exactly where Julian would go after fleeing the house. A man with his pathological arrogance and social standing wouldn't run and hide in a motel; he would rush to the authorities to spin the narrative first, painting himself as the frantic, grieving husband of a clumsy, hysterical wife.
When I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the precinct lobby, my predictions were confirmed instantly. Julian was standing near the front desk, leaning over the counter while talking to a desk sergeant. He had deliberately untucked his expensive designer shirt, ruffled his dark hair, and summoned tears to his eyes, performing the role of the devastated family man with stomach-turning theatricality.
"I don't understand why the hospital won't give me information over the phone!" Julian was pleading to the sergeant, his voice cracking with manufactured grief. "My wife fell down the stairs! She tripped on her maternity dress while carrying laundry! I panicked and went to find our neighbor for help, and when I came back, the ambulance had already taken her! I need to see my wife!"
I walked across the tiled floor, my heavy boots clicking with a rhythmic, measured cadence that drew the attention of three uniformed officers near the holding benches.
"She didn't trip on the stairs, Julian," I said, my voice cutting through his performance like a razor blade.
Julian spun around, his bloodshot eyes widening in genuine surprise for a fraction of a second before his mask of sorrow clamped back into place. "Arthur! Thank God you're here! The hospital won't tell me anything! How is Clara? How is the baby? We were arguing about the nursery paint, and she just lost her balance on the top step—"
I didn't let him finish the sentence. I closed the distance between us in three long strides, grabbing the collar of his four-thousand-dollar jacket with my right hand and slamming him backward against the precinct bulletin board with enough force to rattle the glass display cases.
"Hey! Break it up right now! Step away from him, sir!" the desk sergeant shouted, vaulting over the counter while two patrol officers rushed forward to grab my arms.
I released Julian's collar smoothly, holding my hands up in compliance for the officers, but my gaze never left my son-in-law's sweating, pale face. "Your seven-year-old son was standing in the hallway, Julian," I said softly, ensuring every police officer in the lobby heard every single syllable. "He didn't see his mother trip on a dress. He saw his father shove her pregnant abdomen into the corner of the console table, watch her collapse in a pool of blood, and then slam the front door behind him without calling 911."
Julian’s jaw dropped open, his eyes darting frantically toward the desk sergeant. "That’s a lie! The kid was asleep! He was in his bedroom dreaming! You can't take the testimony of a seven-year-old child over a respected businessman!"
"That seven-year-old child had the courage to call an ambulance while you were running away to save your own skin," I barked, stepping around the patrol officer who was trying to separate us. "My grandson saved his mother’s life tonight. And when Detective Miller interrogates him tomorrow morning with a forensic child psychologist present, every single secret you’ve been burying in that house is going to become part of a felony indictment."
Julian straightened his jacket, his hands shaking so violently he couldn't even button his collar. He looked at the police officers, who were now staring at him with undisguised professional suspicion rather than sympathy.
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"I want my lawyer," Julian hissed, backing toward the entrance of the precinct, his grief-stricken act completely evaporating into cornered, predatory malice. "You're trying to frame me to steal my business, Arthur! I know you've never liked me! But I am Clara's husband, and I have legal rights to my son and my property!"
"You don't have rights anymore, Julian," I said, pointing a finger directly at his chest as he pushed backward through the glass doors. "You have a court date. And I suggest you hire the most expensive defense team in this state, because I am going to personally ensure you never breathe free air again."
