Chapter 3 - The Facade Crumbles
By mid-afternoon, the door to Katie’s room creaked open, and Andrew stepped inside.
He looked immaculate, as always—pressed slacks, a clean linen shirt, his hair styled just so. But the moment his eyes met mine, I saw the micro-twitch in his jaw. He wasn't worried about Katie; he was worried about friction. He was worried that my stubbornness was going to inconvenience his mother’s schedule.
"Amanda," he breathed, stepping forward with his hands outstretched as if to offer comfort he had never truly mastered. "Why didn't you come home last night? Mom was beside herself. People were calling all morning."
I didn't flinch. I didn't step into his embrace. I remained seated in the uncomfortable plastic chair, my hands resting lightly over Katie's blanket.
"My daughter is in intensive care, Andrew," I said, my voice dangerously steady. "Forgive me if I lost track of your mother's dinner party."
Andrew let out a sharp, theatrical sigh, dropping his hands to his sides. "You're making this into a melodrama. The doctors said she's stable. Kids bounce back, Amanda. But Mom is seventy-two years old, and she takes these things personally. Besides, we have that real estate paperwork finalizing tomorrow morning, and you need to sign the final addendums tonight. If you don't come home, the buyer pulls out."
There it was. Not a word about how Katie ended up under the tires of a car. Not a tear for the bruises blooming across her small body. Just property values and maternal appeasement.
"What paperwork, Andrew?" I asked, looking up at him with eyes that felt like broken glass.
He faltered for a fraction of a second, then recovered his slick, corporate smile. "The refinancing documents. You know we discussed this. To consolidate our debts."
"We never discussed selling my father's house," I said softly.
Before Andrew could formulate his next evasion, the door clicked wide open. Detective Reynolds stepped into the room, flanked by two uniformed officers. The air pressure in the room shifted instantly.
Andrew’s face drained of color, his practiced smile fracturing like cheap porcelain. "What is this? Who are you?"
"Andrew Miller," Reynolds said, producing a pair of gleaming steel cuffs from his belt, "you are under arrest for attempted homicide, aggravated assault, and corporate fraud. Turn around and place your hands behind your back."
"Are you insane?" Andrew shouted, his voice cracking as panic clawed its way up his throat. "Amanda, tell them! Tell them this is a mistake! Amanda!"
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I stood up slowly, looking him dead in the eye for the first time since the nightmare began. "She woke up, Andrew," I said. "And she told me everything."
As the officers forced him against the wall and the cold click of the handcuffs echoed off the tile, Andrew stopped struggling. He looked at me with pure, unadulterated hatred, realizing in that single heartbeat that his entire house of cards had turned to dust.
