Chapter 6 - Behind the Deadbolt
Inside 412 Sycamore Lane, the sound of the deadbolt sliding home felt like the turning of a vault door.
Diane’s back pressed against the wood, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Her manicured nails scraped against the paint. Through the frosted glass panels flanking the entrance, she could see the distorted shapes of the flashing red and blue lights, painting the pristine wallpaper of her foyer in violent, pulsing hues.
"Get away from the door, Diane," Arthur said.
His voice was barely above a whisper, but it sounded completely foreign. In thirty years of marriage, Arthur had never used that tone with her. It wasn't angry. It was utterly dead.
"Shut up, Arthur!" she hissed, her eyes wild, scanning the room as if searching for an escape tunnel. "Shut up and think! We have to call Harrison. Harrison is the best defense attorney in the county. We’ll say... we’ll say she suffered a psychotic break. We’ll say she stole that uniform from a surplus store! Yes... yes, she’s delusional! The stress of her arrest made her—"
"Stop it," Arthur said. He had walked over to the side table, picking up a framed photograph. It was a picture of me at age six, holding a blue ribbon from a grade-school spelling bee. The last photograph of me permitted in the house.
"Arthur, call Harrison right now!" she shrieked, her mask completely fracturing. "Do you realize what will happen if that reporter puts this on the air? The church... the committee... Mrs. Gable... they’ll destroy us! Everything I built! Everything we are!"
"There is no 'we,' Diane," Arthur said softly. He set the frame down with a gentle click. "There is only your sickness."
"My sickness?!" She lunged toward him, her face contorted with rage. "I did this for you! I did this for our name! You think anyone would have respected us if they knew our daughter ran away to become a grunt? To sleep in ditches with trailer trash? I protected this family!"
"You erased our child," Arthur said, tears finally spilling over his wrinkled cheeks. "You let our friends weep for us. You stood at the altar and took money from widows to buy your clothes and pay your club dues, all while Emily was bleeding in the desert."
A heavy, authoritative knock rattled the oak door behind her.
*"Mrs. Vance! This is Marshal Bradley! Open the door immediately!"*
Diane froze. Her eyes darted toward the window.
Outside, Brenda Vance’s voice cut through the glass with crystalline clarity, broadcast through a field speaker on the news van:
*"...repeating our top story live from Sycamore Lane. What was dispatched as an escaped felon incident has turned into an unprecedented public revelation. Sergeant Emily Vance, falsely claimed to be serving time in a state penitentiary by her own mother, has returned home decorated with combat honors, while local law enforcement prepares to investigate potential fraud charges related to the Hope Beyond Bars foundation..."*
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Diane sank to her knees on the polished hardwood floor, her hands clutching her head as the sirens continued to pulse against the walls of the monument she had built out of lies.
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