Chapter 3 - The Counter-Attack
The next morning, the San Diego sun rose with a blinding brilliance that felt entirely disconnected from the cold, heavy atmosphere inside the penthouse. Christopher hadn't slept a wink. He had spent the remaining hours of the night sitting on the edge of the master bed, watching Savannah sleep fitfully, guarding her door like a sentinel.
When morning light finally filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he gently extracted himself from the bedroom, locked the door behind him, and walked into his home office. It was time to act. If Bernice was as dangerous as Savannah’s notes—and her own parting threats—implied, letting emotions dictate their next steps would be fatal.
He booted up his desktop computer and immediately dialed a private investigator he had previously used for corporate background checks during his days as a venture capitalist.
“Marcus? It’s Christopher Vance,” he said the moment the line connected. “I need something handled, and I need absolute discretion.”
“Go ahead, Christopher,” Marcus’s gravelly, professional voice came through the speaker. “What are we looking at?”
“My mother, Bernice Vance. She was living with us until last night. I need a complete background check—financial records, property holdings in Sacramento, legal history, medical history, everything. Especially anything involving her past behavior, previous marriages, or legal disputes.”
“Got it,” Marcus replied, the sound of typing clicking in the background. “Anything specific trigger this sudden deep dive?”
“She assaulted my pregnant wife,” Christopher said, his voice dropping into a cold, flat register that made even the seasoned investigator pause. “And I suspect she’s been systematically sabotaging our lives for years. I want every skeleton she’s hiding dragged out into the daylight by the end of the day.”
“Consider it done. I’ll pull her file immediately.”
As soon as he hung up, Christopher’s cell phone buzzed violently on the mahogany desk. It was an incoming call from an unknown number with a Sacramento area code. He frowned, swiping to answer.
“Hello?”
“Christopher Vance?” a sharp, unfamiliar female voice barked through the receiver. “This is Officer Miller with the Sacramento Police Department—though I’m currently stationed down here in San Diego on a temporary joint task force.”
Christopher stood up from his desk instinctively. “Officer Miller? Is there a problem?”
“We received a domestic disturbance and welfare check call early this morning,” the officer said evenly. “Filed by your mother, Bernice Vance.”
Christopher’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. “My mother filed a police report against us?”
“She walked into the downtown precinct at 5:00 a.m. claiming that she was unlawfully evicted from her primary residence by an unstable, violent drug-addicted son, and that her daughter-in-law—who she claims is suffering from severe mental delusions and physical instability—is currently being held captive and abused inside your apartment.”
A bitter, incredulous laugh escaped Christopher’s throat. It was a masterstroke of manipulative projection. Bernice had flipped the script before Christopher could even legal-proof their home, weaponizing the legal system against them.
“That is complete and utter bullshit, Officer,” Christopher snapped, struggling to keep his temper under control. “My mother attacked my seven-month-pregnant wife yesterday afternoon. I caught her red-handed, threw her out of our home, and she is retaliating.”
“Mr. Vance, I understand your frustration,” Officer Miller replied professionally. “However, because an elder abuse and domestic endangerment claim has been officially lodged, protocol dictates that we must conduct an in-person welfare check. My partner and I are currently parked outside your building lobby. We’ll be at your door in five minutes.”
Click.
The line went dead.
Christopher stared at the phone in sheer disbelief. Bernice hadn't just left; she had launched an immediate preemptive strike designed to bring law enforcement directly to their doorstep, casting herself as the helpless victim and Christopher and Savannah as the abusers.
He rushed out of the office and down the hallway to the master bedroom, tapping softly on the door before pushing it open. Savannah was already awake, sitting upright against the pillows, her face pale with panic.
“Who was that?” she asked, her voice trembling. “I heard you shouting.”
“It was the police,” Christopher said rapidly, running a hand through his hair. “Mom went to the precinct at dawn. She filed a report claiming we threw her out unlawfully and that you’re being held captive and abused by me.”
Savannah’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in horror. “She... she went to the police? Oh God, Christopher, she’s turning it all around. She knows how to play the system. When I tried to hint at her behavior to her old friends in Sacramento years ago, she spun a story that made everyone think I was unstable.”
“Don’t panic,” Christopher said, stepping forward and taking her cold hands in his. “We have undeniable proof. Your Notes app, the timestamps, the medical records from the hospital visits she forced you to lie about. And Marcus is pulling her entire history right now. Let them come.”
Before Savannah could respond, a sharp, authoritative knock echoed loudly against the front door of the penthouse.
May you like
Three firm raps.
The battle lines had been drawn, and Bernice had fired the first official shot.
