Chapter 4 - The Iron Grip of the Law
CRACK.
A sickening snap of bone echoed through the concrete stairwell.
Graham Ellison had moved with the lethal speed of a collegiate heavyweight rower. He seized Vanessa’s right wrist, twisting the joint outward with surgical leverage until the silver lighter flew from her grip, clattering down the concrete stairs into the darkness below.
Vanessa screamed, dropping to her knees on the gasoline-soaked floor, clutching her fractured wrist to her chest.
Patricia swung the aluminum bat with two hands, aiming directly at Graham’s head.
She never finished the arc.
Two burly executive protection operatives in dark tactical windbreakers intercepted the swing, disarming the older woman in half a second, slamming her face-first against the concrete block wall of the corridor. The bat clattered harmlessly against the railing.
"Drop your hands! Police! Do not move!"
Four uniformed Newport police officers poured up the stairwell, service weapons drawn, flashlights cutting through the dim, gasoline-fumed corridor.
Graham stood over Vanessa, his tailored charcoal overcoat completely unbuttoned, his tie ripped off, chest heaving with cold, contained fury. He didn't look at the officers. He looked down at the woman who had spent the last six months pretending to be his future wife.
"Attempted aggravated arson," Graham said, his voice dropping into a deadly, clinical register that made the arresting officers stiffen. "Attempted capital murder of a minor and a protected witness. Criminal conspiracy. Felony intimidation."
He turned to the lead detective.
"Detective Miller, ensure these two individuals are held without bail at the Adult Correctional Institutions in Cranston. I am personally filing the emergency protective orders with Judge Vance in thirty minutes."
"Understood, Mr. Ellison," the detective replied, ratcheting steel handcuffs around Vanessa’s uninjured wrist while she wept hysterically, begging for mercy.
Patricia was hauled down the stairs, screaming curses into the rain, threatening lawsuits against the police, the city, and the state, until the heavy metal fire door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the venomous noise.
Graham turned around, his eyes locking onto mine through the open apartment doorway.
The cold, lethal predator vanished. In his eyes was an expression of pure, unadulterated terror. He crossed the threshold in two strides, his hands coming up to grip my upper arms, checking my face, my neck, my clothes for burns or injuries.
"Are you hurt, Claire?" Graham asked, his voice trembling with a raw, unvarnished intensity. "Did the fuel touch you? Where is Lily?"
"We're... we're fine," I stammered, my knees finally giving out beneath me as the delayed shock crashed over my body.
Graham caught me before my knees hit the linoleum floor. He lifted me effortlessly into his arms, carrying me over to the worn laminate sofa, settling me down with gentle, reverent care.
"You cannot stay in this building," Graham said, kneeling in front of me, his thumbs brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "The fuel fumes are toxic, and the Miller family still has associates in this county. Pack one bag for you and Lily. My car is waiting downstairs."
"Mr. Ellison, I cannot go to a hotel—"
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"You aren't going to a hotel, Claire," Graham interrupted softly, his gaze steady and immovable.
"You’re going to my family's private residence at Beacon Hill. And nobody will ever threaten you or your child again."
