Chapter 5 - The Trap Springs Back
A surge of white-hot rage eclipsed every ounce of fear in my chest. Rebecca thought she held all the cards. She thought a grieving, trusting old man would fold under pressure to save his daughter. She didn't know the man she had manipulated for two years had built a multi-million-dollar corporate empire from the ground up by crushing predators far more ruthless than her.
I picked up Emily’s phone, dialed emergency services on speaker while keeping my hand firmly on my daughter's wrist, and barked orders to the dispatcher.
“This is Arthur Vance. I am at 442 Rosewood Lane. My daughter has been deliberately poisoned with a neurotoxic sedative. I need an ambulance and a police escort here within three minutes, or there will be a homicide investigation on your hands.”
“Sir, calm down—who administered—”
“My fiancée,” I interrupted, my voice dropping into a cold, lethal register. “She left a digital confession on a flash drive currently in my possession. Send the tactical medical unit with a broad-spectrum antidote panel immediately. If my daughter dies, the chief of police will be hearing from my legal team before the sirens stop.”
I hung up before the dispatcher could reply. I carefully lifted Emily, carrying her fragile body down to the living room where the air was fresher, wrapping her in a heavy wool blanket to combat her dropping core temperature. Within three agonizing minutes, the wail of sirens pierced the suburban calm. Paramedics flooded through the front door, their training kicking in instantly as they hooked Emily up to IV lines and administered emergency reversal agents.
As the lead paramedic stabilized her vitals, color slowly began to seep back into her pale cheeks. A deep, shuddering gasp escaped her lips.
“Dad...?” she whispered, her eyes fluttering open.
“I’ve got you, Emmy,” I choked out, tears finally breaking free and streaming down my face. “You’re safe. The monster doesn't win today.”
Outside, two unmarked police cruisers pulled up behind the ambulance. Detective Miller, an old acquaintance from my corporate security days, stepped out, adjusting his badge.
“Arthur,” Miller said, stepping into the house. “Dispatch said you had an emergency confession and a poisoning suspect. Where is she?”
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I stood up, wiping my eyes, the sorrow entirely replaced by an unyielding wall of granite. I pulled the flash drive from my pocket and handed it to the detective along with the screenshot of Rebecca’s threatening text message.
“She’s currently standing at the altar of the Grand Continental Hotel,” I said, checking my watch. “Waiting for a groom who is about to hand her over to you.”
