Chapter 7
The piercing wail of the ambulance sirens shattered the quiet, manicured peace of the suburban American cul-de-sac. Bright, flashing red and white lights strobe-washed the interior of the Bennett home, casting erratic shadows across the bright, cinematic decor. Within seconds, two paramedics—a man and a woman in crisp navy-blue uniforms—burst through the front door, hauling heavy orange trauma bags.
"Where is she?" the lead paramedic, a burly man with a thick American accent, shouted over the lingering chaos of the remaining relatives.
"In here!" Arthur yelled from the living room.
The paramedics rushed in, immediately dropping to their knees beside the white sectional sofa. They took one look at Elena's clammy, grayish skin and sprang into action. The female paramedic pulled a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope from her bag, while her partner began preparing an IV line.
"What's her status?" the male paramedic asked, shining a small penlight into Elena's unresponsive eyes.
"Thirty-one years old. Seven days postpartum," Arthur rattled off, his corporate brain clinging to hard data to stave off a complete emotional breakdown. "She was forced to cook and host a party all day. She hasn't eaten. She hasn't been allowed to hydrate. She collapsed about ten minutes ago."
The female paramedic frowned, wrapping the cuff around Elena’s thin arm. "Forced? By who?"
Before Arthur could answer, the front door opened again. Two uniformed police officers stepped inside, closely followed by Margaret. She had a tissue pressed theatrically to her swollen cheek, and her fair, rosy skin was stained with crocodile tears. She pointed a trembling finger directly at Arthur.
"That's him, officers," Margaret sobbed, playing the victim with terrifying perfection. "My son. He just assaulted me in front of the entire family. And his wife—she is severely mentally ill. She has been neglecting the baby all day. You need to arrest him and take the child into protective custody!"
The older police officer stepped into the living room, his hand resting on his utility belt. "Sir, I need you to step away from the patient."
Arthur stood up slowly, keeping himself positioned directly between the police officers and the sofa where the paramedics were working frantically on his wife. He looked at Margaret, his eyes burning with an unholy fire.
"My wife is dying because of that woman," Arthur stated, his voice deadly calm, echoing with the authority of a man who managed hundreds of employees. "She came into my home while I was on a business trip, locked my wife out of the nursery, and forced her to perform manual labor until her body gave out."
"That is a lie!" Margaret shrieked. "Look at my face, officer! He hit me!"
"I did hit her," Arthur admitted instantly, looking the officer dead in the eye. "She blocked the door and told me I couldn't take my dying wife and my child to the hospital. She was armed with a carving knife. It's on the floor in the hallway. Now, you can arrest me if you want, but I am going in that ambulance with my family. If she is still in my house when I get back, I will press charges for trespassing, elder abuse, and child endangerment."
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The police officer looked from Arthur’s tailored suit to Margaret’s theatrical sobbing, then to the carving knife abandoned on the floor. The paramedics didn't even look up; they were too busy inserting a large-bore IV into Elena's arm.
"Blood pressure is dangerously low. She's severely dehydrated and tachycardic," the paramedic announced. "We need to transport her now. Grab the backboard."
