Chapter 4 - RETURNING TO THE PORCH
I didn't climb out of that dumpster like a victim.
Arthur helped me down, wrapping a thick black cashmere coat around my shivering shoulders. One of his men handed me a insulated thermos of steaming black coffee. The hot liquid surged through my system, burning away the lingering chill and replacing it with a cold, focused clarity.
Parked along the snow-covered street were three jet-black executive SUVs with tinted windows and blacked-out rims. Neighbours were stepping out onto their porches, pointing and whispering as Arthur’s security detail established a perimeter around the Peterson townhouse.
"How do you want to handle this, Miss Vance?" Arthur asked, standing beside me as his team carried the Pelican case toward the lead vehicle. "We have enough evidence right now to have the FBI arrest Richard and Susan Peterson for child endangerment, embezzlement, and grand larceny."
I looked down the street at my parents' house—the warm yellow glow from the living room windows, the wreath on the front door, the serene suburban facade.
"No," I said softly, handing the empty coffee thermos back. "If the police take them now, they’ll play the victims. They’ll hire lawyers with my money and claim it was a family misunderstanding."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "What are you proposing?"
"I want to go back inside," I said, looking Arthur dead in the eye. "I want to see their faces when they realize I know everything."
Arthur’s lips curved into a subtle, respectful smile. "Very well. But you won't go in alone."
He gestured to two of his security operatives—a towering woman named Vance with a military posture and a sharp-eyed man carrying a digital tablet.
"This is Sarah and Marcus," Arthur said. "Sarah is personal protection. Marcus is our senior forensic accountant. We’ll be right behind you."
We walked up the snow-covered driveway toward the front porch. Every step felt light, deliberate, and powerful. For eighteen years, I had walked up these steps feeling small, terrified of making noise, terrified of disappointing people who never cared about me.
Now, I owned the ground they walked on.
I stepped onto the porch. Through the sheer curtains of the living room window, I could see the scene inside.
Richard was sitting in his leather recliner, sipping scotch, watching a football game on his sixty-inch television. Susan was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through her iPad, sipping wine. Haley was sitting by the Christmas tree, taking selfies with her new phone, completely unbothered by the fact that her sister had been thrown into a dumpster twenty minutes ago.
They looked peaceful. They looked comfortable.
I didn't knock.
I lifted my boot and kicked the heavy front door directly near the deadbolt.
BANG!
The wooden door slammed open, bouncing off the interior wall with a violent crack that echoed through the entire house.
Inside, Susan shrieked, dropping her wine glass onto the white carpet. Richard leaped out of his recliner, spilling scotch down his shirt. Haley scrambled backward on her knees, clutching her new iPhone to her chest.
"What the hell—!" Richard roared, charging toward the hallway.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
I stepped into the foyer, flanked by Sarah and Marcus. The cold winter wind billowed through the open doorway behind us, sending loose snow dancing across the hardwood floor.
Richard stared at me. His eyes darted from my face, to the luxury coat around my shoulders, to the two imposing professionals standing at my side.
May you like
"Maya?" Richard stammered, his face turning an ugly shade of red. "What... how did you get out of there?"
"You forgot one thing, Dad," I said, my voice dangerously calm as I stepped into the warm living room. "Trash gets collected. And today... I'm collecting."
