Chapter 3 - The Investigation
Ruth led Scarlet down a wide, oak-paneled hallway to a spacious ground-floor suite. The double doors were broad enough to accommodate her wheelchair comfortably, featuring a private sitting area, a fireplace, and a large bed covered in hand-stitched linens.
“If you need anything, press the brass button beside the nightstand,” Ruth said, her tone softening slightly as she set Scarlet’s worn canvas bag on a chair. “Dinner is at seven, but tonight I’ll have a tray brought to your room.”
“Thank you, Ruth,” Scarlet said sincerely. “For everything.”
The housekeeper lingered at the door for a brief moment, her eyes resting on Scarlet’s calm face. “It’s been a long time since this house had a guest, Miss Bennett. Get some rest.”
After Ruth closed the door, Scarlet transferred herself from the chair to the bed. Her lower body was completely numb, but her upper arms and back throbbed with fatigue. She lay back against the soft pillows, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the massive estate—the deep hum of the heating system, the wind rattling the heavy glass panes, and distant footsteps on the floor above.
Downstairs in the dark mahogany study, Garrison stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the snow-covered grounds.
The study door opened without a knock.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in his late fifties stepped inside. Dominic Renzy was Garrison’s right-hand man, a former military contractor who managed security for the Vance family’s vast commercial and underground holdings. His face was lined with old scars, and his eyes were sharp as razors.
“You brought a stranger into the compound, Garrison,” Dom said, stepping to the desk. His tone carried the familiarity of a man who had served Garrison’s father for twenty years. “In the middle of the Moretti territory dispute. Is that wise?”
Garrison did not turn around. “She was dying on Broad Street.”
“People die on Broad Street every night,” Dom replied flatly. “And Moretti has been looking for a weak point in your armor for six months. What if she’s a plant? What if the Callaways set this up?”
Garrison remembered the way Scarlet had looked at him—with absolute, unvarnished pride and a total refusal to beg. He remembered the way Leo had reached for her notebook.
“Run her,” Garrison ordered coldly. “Everything. Financials, medical records, family history. I want to know who put her on that curb.”
“I’m already on it,” Dom said, pulling a encrypted tablet from his jacket. “I’ve got my guys digging into her background now.”
Two hours later, at two in the morning, Dom returned to the study. He placed a thin manila folder on the desk.
Garrison sat down, pulling the file toward him under the amber desk lamp.
“Her name is Scarlet Bennett,” Dom began, leaning against the edge of the desk. “Twenty-seven. Born in Woonsocket, raised by a single mother who worked as a seamstress. Her mother died of cancer when Scarlet was nineteen. Scarlet put herself through Rhode Island College on scholarships and student loans, graduating with honors in elementary education.”
Garrison flipped the page. A high school yearbook photo showed a smiling young woman with bright hazel eyes and dark chestnut hair.
“She taught second grade at Dexter Street Elementary for six years,” Dom continued. “Loved by her students, zero disciplinary actions. Fourteen months ago, her car was broadsided by a drunk driver at Fifth and Elm. Her spine was crushed at the T-11 vertebra. Permanent paraplegia.”
Garrison’s fingers tightened on the edge of the paper. “And the Callaways?”
“Three years ago, she married Preston Callaway,” Dom said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Preston’s mother, Vivian Callaway, runs Callaway Real Estate—a mid-tier firm that’s heavily leveraged in debt. Vivian hated Scarlet from day one. Called her a penniless schoolteacher who tricked her son.”
Dom pointed to a document near the back of the file.
“After the accident, the insurance payout was two hundred thousand dollars. Preston legally managed the account. Within eight months, he spent every dime paying off his mother’s business loans. Once the money was gone, Vivian decided Scarlet was a useless burden.”
“And tonight?” Garrison asked, his voice dropping into a register that made Dom’s posture straighten.
“Vivian filed a fraudulent petition for divorce on Preston’s behalf yesterday morning, claiming spousal abandonment,” Dom revealed. “They stripped Scarlet’s name from the house lease, packed her bag, drove her to Broad Street in the middle of a blizzard, and left her there with eleven dollars in her pocket.”
Garrison sat in absolute silence. The fireplace crackled in the corner, casting long, dancing shadows across his harsh jawline.
“They took her money, destroyed her body, and threw her into the snow,” Garrison said softly.
“Pretty much,” Dom agreed. “The Callaways think they’re untouchable because they’ve got a couple of corrupt city inspectors in their pocket.”
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Garrison closed the file with a slow, deliberate motion.
“Find out who holds Callaway Real Estate’s mortgages,” Garrison said, his gray eyes turning to ice. “And call our legal team. By tomorrow afternoon, I want Vivian Callaway begging for mercy on her knees.”
