Chapter 4 - The Paternity Trap
Ten minutes later, Detective Sarah Miller arrived at the hospital. She was a sharp, no-nonsense woman in her late thirties, dressed in a grey blazer with a gold detective badge clipped to her belt.
She sat across from us in the private consultation room, her notebook open, listening intently as Brandon and I recounted every single detail of the afternoon—from the kitchen preparation to the incident on the patio, and finally the jar of blackberry preserve Madeline had delivered forty-eight hours earlier.
When I finished speaking, Detective Miller tapped her pen against her notepad, watching my face closely.
“Mrs. Vance,” Detective Miller said quietly, “are you aware that an anonymous report was filed with CPS against you at 1:15 p.m. today?”
I froze. “What? A report against me?”
Detective Miller pulled a printed paper from her folder. “The caller claimed that you were suffering from severe postpartum psychosis, that you had been seen putting household chemicals into your child’s food, and that you were trying to frame your husband’s wealthy family for child abuse.”
Brandon jumped up out of his seat. “That’s bullshit! Who made that call?!”
“The call was placed from a burner phone,” Detective Miller replied. “But the caller specifically named you, Mr. Vance, and stated that you were being duped because Luke is not your biological son.”
“That is an absolute, filthy lie!” I screamed, tears overflowing my eyes. “I have never been with another man in my entire life! Brandon is the only father Luke has ever had!”
“I know, Clara. I know,” Brandon said, wrapping his arms tightly around my shaking shoulders. He looked up at Detective Miller with burning eyes. “It’s my mother, Detective. It’s Madeline Vance. She has hated Clara since the day I introduced them. Clara comes from a working-class family in East Nashville. My mother thinks anyone without a multi-million-dollar trust fund is a gold-digger.”
“Did your mother ever have access to a laboratory or a garden with foxglove?” Detective Miller asked.
“She owns a ten-acre estate in Belle Meade,” Brandon spat. “Her greenhouse has over two hundred species of exotic flowers, including foxglove. She grows them herself!”
Detective Miller made a quick notation in her book. “Mr. Vance, to clear the CPS investigation completely and dismiss this anonymous report, I recommend we perform an immediate, expedited court-ordered paternity test on you and Luke right here in the hospital. Once we have certified legal proof of biological paternity, it destroys the credibility of the caller’s narrative in court.”
“Do it,” Brandon said without a single second of hesitation. “Swab my cheek right now. Run it through the state lab. I want my mother’s lies dragged into the light.”
A hospital technician was brought into the room immediately. She took cotton swabs from Brandon’s inner cheek and sealed them in sterile tamper-evident biohazard bags alongside the blood samples already drawn from Luke in the ICU.
While the lab rushed the expedited test, Detective Miller turned to us with a stern look.
“I have two officers heading to your residence right now to secure the scene, search for the shattered pieces of that cobbler plate, and locate the jar of blackberry preserve,” Detective Miller said. “Mr. Vance, do you have security cameras inside your home?”
Brandon suddenly straightened up, a sharp realization washing over his face.
“We don't have cameras in the living room,” Brandon said slowly. “But three months ago, I installed a smart kitchen sensor camera hidden inside the smoke detector above the pantry counter. It records twenty-four hours a day to a secure cloud server.”
I looked at Brandon, hope suddenly reigniting in my chest. “The pantry counter? That’s where I set the jar of preserve when Madeline brought it over!”
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Brandon pulled his phone out of his pocket, his hands trembling as he logged into the encrypted home security app.
“Let’s see what my mother did in my kitchen,” Brandon whispered.
