Chapter 2 - The Assessment
The door clicked shut, leaving the house in an echoing silence. I didn't waste a second. I carried Maya straight to the bathroom, sat her on the granite counter, and turned on the warm light.
"Hey, baby girl," I whispered, keeping my voice softer than I had in months. "Can you look at Mama?"
Maya slowly lifted her head. Her beautiful hazel eyes were shattered, hollowed out by weeks of fear. She still hadn't spoken a word.
I gently pushed up the sleeves of her stained yellow pajamas. Bile rose in my throat. The bruises were worse under the harsh light. Finger marks on her biceps. A fresh, angry red indentation shaped like a shoe heel on her left wrist. I pulled out my phone and took high-resolution photos of every single mark.
"Did she do this, sweetheart?" I asked.
Maya squeezed her eyes shut and gave a tiny, jerky nod.
"Did Daddy stop her?"
Maya shook her head. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
My heart physically ached, but the cold fury in my blood kept my hands steady. I wrapped her in a warm, fluffy blanket, bundled her into my armored SUV, and drove straight to Seattle Children’s Hospital.
The ER staff took one look at my federal badge and the battered child in my arms and ushered us into a private room. The attending pediatrician was thorough, gentle, and horrified.
"These are defensive bruises," Dr. Evans said quietly, stepping out into the hallway with me while a nurse gave Maya a warm sponge bath. "And signs of prolonged malnutrition. She's lost at least five pounds. For a six-year-old, that's severe. Has she experienced any psychological trauma? She hasn't spoken a word to us."
"Selective mutism brought on by trauma," I said, my voice dead. "I was away on a classified op. My husband was supposed to be caring for her."
Dr. Evans’s eyes hardened. "I'm mandated to report this to CPS."
"Do it," I said. "And flag it for the Seattle PD criminal division. I want a paper trail an inch thick."
As Dr. Evans walked away, my phone buzzed. It was Julian. I let it go to voicemail, then listened to the recording.
“Clara, you psychotic bitch! I just tried to check us into the Four Seasons and my card was declined! You froze the joint accounts?! I am the CEO of Mercer Enterprises! I will destroy you tomorrow morning!”
I deleted the voicemail and dialed a different number.
"Director Vance," a gruff voice answered on the second ring.
"Vance, it’s Mercer. I need a favor," I said, leaning against the sterile hospital wall. "I need a deep-dive background check on a woman named Chloe Vale. Financials, criminal history, aliases, everything. And Vance?"
"Yeah, Clara?"
"Send a tactical tech team to my house. I want every hard drive recovered, every hidden nanny-cam I installed three years ago accessed, and the footage downloaded. We have a domestic terrorism situation."
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"Who's the target?" Vance asked.
"My soon-to-be ex-husband," I said. "I'm going to burn his life to the ground."
