Chapter 5 - The Caught Image
For the first twenty minutes, the session proceeded with an eerie, tense normalcy. Chloe played her scales, her little fingers moving methodically across the ivory keys. Richard stood behind her like a stone statue, occasionally tapping the wooden ruler against the side of the piano to dictate the tempo.
But then, Chloe’s hand slipped. Under the intense psychological pressure, she struck a sharp, discordant note on a minor chord.
On the monitor, Richard’s demeanor transformed instantly. The refined, scholarly grandfather vanished, replaced by a monster of pure, unbridled malice.
“Stop!” Richard roared, his voice distorting the audio feed in the van.
Chloe instantly pulled her hands back, her shoulders hunching in fear.
“What did I tell you about that chord, girl?” Richard snarled, stepping into her personal space. He slammed the wooden ruler down onto the polished wood of the piano, just inches from her fingers. “Are you intentionally trying to humiliate this family? After everything I have invested in you?”
“I’m sorry, Grandpa! My hand slipped!” Chloe cried, backing her bench away from him.
“Excuses are for the weak! Excuses are for people like your father!” Richard yelled. He reached out with both hands, his large, veiny fingers digging violently into the fabric of Chloe’s shirt, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her off the bench with terrifying force.
On the high-definition monitor, we watched in horrific real-time as Richard’s fingers dug deep into her ribs and lower back—the exact placement of the handprint bruises she had shown me days before. Chloe shrieked in pain, trying to pull away, but his grip was unyielding.
“You will sit up straight, and you will play it again!” Richard hissed, shaking her small body like a ragdoll. “If I hear another wrong note, I will ensure your father never steps foot in this city again! Do you hear me? Look at me!”
“Get the local state troopers on the line now,” I told Marcus, my voice completely devoid of emotion, a cold, lethal calm taking over my body. I stood up in the back of the van, grabbing a heavy metal tire iron from the emergency kit. “We aren't waiting for a court date. I’m going in.”
“Harrison, wait for the units! It’s safer for the case!” Marcus warned, reaching out to stop me.
“He is putting his hands on my daughter right now, Marcus,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “If you don't unlock the van doors, I will break the windshield.”
Marcus saw the absolute, unyielding determination in my eyes and hit the electronic release button.
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I sprinted down the asphalt road, the tire iron clutched tightly in my right hand. The iron gates of the Sterling estate were locked, but I didn't care. I utilized my architectural knowledge of the perimeter walls, finding a drainage gap near the eastern boundary, scaling the six-foot stone barrier in seconds.
I sprinted across the immaculate green lawn, crashing through the glass patio doors of the formal dining room in an explosion of glittering shards and roaring fury.
