Chapter 2 - The Assessment
I drove to the only place I knew was safe. Sarah’s house.
Sarah was the charge nurse in my ER. She was a hardened, no-nonsense veteran who had seen it all and possessed a moral compass made of solid iron. When I knocked on her door at 6:30 AM, she opened it wearing a bathrobe, holding a coffee mug. She took one look at my face, then down at Maya sleeping in my arms, and stepped aside.
"Guest room is on the left. Put her down, then come to the kitchen," Sarah said. No questions. No hesitation.
After tucking Maya into the warm, clean sheets of Sarah's guest bed, the adrenaline finally began to recede, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache. I walked into the kitchen and collapsed onto a barstool. Sarah handed me a mug of black coffee and pushed a box of tissues toward me.
"Julian?" she asked softly.
"And Chloe," I whispered. The words tasted like ash.
Sarah’s eyes darkened with a sudden, violent fury. "Your sister? In your house?"
I nodded, the tears finally breaking through. I told her everything. The dark porch light. The freezing house. Maya on the floor under the table.
That was the detail that made Sarah slam her coffee mug down. "He left his six-year-old daughter freezing on the hardwood so he could screw your sister?"
"I took photos," I said, my voice trembling. "I have proof. But Sarah, my brain can't process it. Why was Maya under the table?"
A small, groggy voice came from the hallway. "Because Auntie Chloe yelled at me."
I spun around. Maya was standing in the doorway, clutching her bear, her dark eyes wide. I rushed over and fell to my knees, pulling her into a tight embrace.
"What happened, baby?" I asked, stroking her hair.
Maya sniffled. "Daddy and Auntie Chloe were drinking the smelly juice. I came out to get water because I was thirsty. Auntie Chloe got mad. She said I was a little brat who ruins everything and told me to get out of her way. She pushed me. Daddy just laughed and carried her to the bedroom. I was scared to go back to my room because it was dark, so I hid under the table."
The sound that left my throat wasn't a sob. It was a low, guttural growl.
My husband hadn't just cheated on me. He had allowed his mistress to assault and neglect my child in my own home.
Sarah knelt beside us, her face entirely devoid of its usual warmth. "Okay," she said, her voice pure steel. "You can cry for five more minutes. Then, you are going to call Marcus Vance."
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Marcus Vance was the most ruthless, terrifying divorce attorney in the state. He usually didn't take normal domestic cases, but I had saved his son’s life in the trauma bay two years ago.
"I'm calling him," I said, standing up, the sadness completely burning away into pure, white-hot rage. "I'm going to destroy them."
