Chapter 7 - THE POLICE AT THE DOOR
Before I could even process the full, cataclysmic weight of my mother’s words—before I could scream, before I could cry, before I could figure out whether to strangle my mother or run for my life—a heavy, authoritative pounding echoed through my front hallway.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Federal Bureau of Investigation! Open the door!”
The words froze the blood in my veins.
Mom gasped, her eyes going wide with abject terror as she scrambled backward out of her chair, pressing herself flat against the refrigerator like a trapped animal.
“They’re here,” she choked out, her voice a thin, reedy squeak. “Clara, they found you.”
“Open the door! We have a federal warrant for the arrest of Clara Miller!”
Lily stirred in the other room, letting out a soft, confused whimper from the sofa where she was still resting her cast.
My heart hammered against my ribs with the force of a jackhammer. Fifteen years. Federal prison. While Rachel—the real criminal, the monster who had broken my four-year-old daughter’s arm—sat comfortably in her downtown condo sipping wine and waiting for her family to clean up her mess.
Not a chance.
I didn't open the front door. Instead, I grabbed my phone off the kitchen counter, scooped my car keys from the bowl by the fridge, and bolted down the short hallway toward Lily.
“Clara, what are you doing? You can't run from the FBI!” Mom screamed, scrambling after me.
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“Watch me,” I hissed, scooping Lily into my arms. The little girl groaned sleepily, clutching her teal cast against my chest. “You got us into this, Mom. You and your golden child. Now figure your own way out.”
I unlocked the back kitchen door that led out to the alleyway just as the front door of my townhouse splintered with a deafening CRACK, wood chips flying as federal agents breached the lock.
