Chapter 3 - The Precinct Waiting Room
The drive to the Fairfax County police precinct took twenty-eight minutes of absolute agony. I didn’t speed, but every red light felt like a personal insult, and every mile marker stretched out like an eternity. By the time I parked my service vehicle and marched through the glass doors of the station, my uniform was immaculate, but my mind was a war zone.
The desk sergeant looked up as I approached, taking in my insignia and the grim set of my jaw. “Lieutenant Colonel Ashford. We were expecting you. Your husband is in Interview Room B, and your mother is currently being evaluated by paramedics in the medical annex.”
“I want to see my mother first,” I stated, leaving no room for argument.
“Right this way, Colonel.”
In the sterile, white-walled annex, I found my mother sitting on a gurney. A thick white bandage was taped to the side of her forehead, and a purple bruise was already blooming across her thin cheekbone. When she saw me, tears welled in her clouded eyes. “Blair… I swear I didn’t do anything wrong. He just showed up at my door at midnight. He looked like a stranger.”
I gently cupped her frail hand, feeling the tremors running through her fingers. “I know, Mom. You’re safe now. Tell me everything, word for word.”
She swallowed hard. “He came asking about the old Victorian property in Savannah. The one my sister left to me in her will. He wanted me to sign a quick-claim deed over to him immediately, claiming we needed the asset protection for some joint investment. When I told him I wanted to consult my lawyer first, his face twisted. He snatched the document back, and when I tried to close the door, he forced his way in. He shoved me against the antique mantelpiece. My head hit the corner. When I fell to the floor, bleeding, he stood over me, pulled out his phone, and dialed 911. He told the dispatcher that a crazy old woman had attacked him with a fireplace poker.”
My blood ran absolute ice. The fireplace poker. Nolan had planted or staged a weapon to frame a seventy-one-year-old cancer survivor.
Just as I stood up from the gurney, the door swung open, and Detective Vance—no relation, thankfully—stepped into the room, flanked by my husband.
Nolan looked like a masterpiece of manufactured innocence. He wore a crisp button-down shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up, his hair perfectly tousled, and an expression of deep, wounded concern on his face. The moment he saw me, he rushed forward with his arms open.
“Blair! Thank God you’re here. It’s an absolute nightmare. Your mother—she’s losing her cognitive faculties. She attacked me out of nowhere with a heavy iron fireplace tool. I had to restrain her for her own safety. Look at my arm, honey, she scratched me deep.”
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t step into his embrace. I stood there, rooted to the linoleum floor, staring at the man I had shared a bed with for fifteen years.
“Nolan,” I said quietly, my voice dropping an octave into a tone that had made grown soldiers swallow hard. “You made a catastrophic mistake tonight.”
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He blinked, his theatrical performance faltering for a microsecond before he recovered his footing. “What are you talking about, Blair? I’m the victim here.”
“No,” I replied, stepping forward and pulling a small, encrypted flash drive from my tactical vest pocket. “You’re a criminal who forgot that my mother’s house isn’t a blind spot.”
