Chapter 5 - The Sister-in-Law’s Collusion
The suite at the Brown Palace was quiet, save for the crackle of a small gas fireplace set into the Victorian hearth.
It was 7:15 AM on New Year’s Day. Outside, the city had been scrubbed clean by the blizzard; six inches of powder blanketed the limestone cornices along Seventeenth Street, muffling the sound of the light rail cars and the few municipal plows clearing the avenues.
I sat at a heavy mahogany writing desk, sipping hot chamomile tea from a china cup, while a private registered nurse named Sarah changed the dressing on my lower abdomen.
The silver sulfadiazine cream was cool, numbing the persistent, throbbing ache of the burn, but the sight of the wound still made my stomach tighten into a hard knot. The center of the blister had collapsed into a grayish-yellow depression, surrounded by an angry halo of purple inflammation.
"It’s healing cleanly, Ms. Sterling," Sarah said, taping the fresh sterile pad down with hypoallergenic silk tape. "No signs of secondary cellulitis. But you need to stay off your feet. Every time you engage your rectus abdominis muscles, you put lateral tension on the granulation tissue."
"I have two more stops to make today, Sarah," I said, buttoning a soft, dark gray cashmere tunic over the bandages. "Then I’ll sleep."
The double doors of the suite clicked open, and Marcus walked in, accompanied by Detective Vance.
Vance had changed into a clean dark blazer, but she carried the same battered leather folio under her arm. She set a plastic evidence bag on the corner of the desk.
Inside the bag was a rose-gold iPhone 15 Pro with a cracked screen protector and a case covered in pink rhinestones.
"Brooke Miller’s phone," Vance said, pulling up a wooden armchair. "We seized it when she attempted to re-enter the Spire at five o'clock this morning to recover her jewelry."
"Did she give up the passcode?" I asked.
"She didn't have to," Vance replied. "She had biometric unlock set to her face. When we informed her that she was being detained as an accessory to felony domestic violence and evidence tampering, she started screaming that her brother had forced her to take the video. She unlocked the device to show the patrol sergeant the text messages Ryan had sent her before dinner."
Vance pulled a printout from her folio and slid it across the mahogany blotter.
The messages were timestamped yesterday afternoon, between 3:15 PM and 4:30 PM:
Ryan [15:18]: Bring the wide-angle lens attachment. When Dad starts on the budget conversation, make sure you have the camera propped against the salt shaker.
Brooke [15:22]: Is this about the pre-nup? Mom said she’s still refusing to sign the Cherry Creek equity release.
Ryan [15:24]: It’s about the whole portfolio. Dad’s going to push her until she loses her temper. The second she raises her voice or grabs a knife, start recording. We need thirty seconds of her looking completely unhinged for the probate judge. The Chicago lender wants proof that she’s emotionally incompetent to manage the corporate reserves before they accept my signature on the Cerberus assignment.
Brooke [15:31]: What’s my cut? You promised forty thousand for the London tuition balance.
Ryan [15:35]: You’ll get fifty. Just keep the lens steady and don't stop recording until Dad tells you to.
I stared at the black-and-white printout.
Fifty thousand dollars.
The cost of my terror, the physical mutilation of my body, and the potential termination of my pregnancy had been bargained down to fifty thousand dollars so Brooke Miller could spend a semester in Kensington studying interior design.
"Where is she now?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"In the interview room at the Special Victims Unit," Vance said. "Her mother is in the lobby, screaming that the Denver Police Department is running a police state. But Brooke... Brooke is terrified. She realized about an hour ago that an accessory charge on a Class 3 felony domestic assault in this state carries a mandatory prison sentence of four to twelve years."
"She’s twenty-two," I said.
"She’s an adult," Vance countered without hesitation. "She watched her father pull a burning cigar out of his pocket. She saw her brother pin your wrists to the table. And instead of dialing nine-one-one, she zoomed the lens in to make sure she captured your facial expression when the coal hit your sweater."
The door to the suite opened again, and Frank Callahan stepped inside, carrying an iPad linked to the county jail’s video visitation terminal.
"Ryan’s public defender just filed an emergency bond motion," Frank said, setting the tablet on the desk. "He’s on the remote docket for eight-thirty before Judge Martinez. They’re asking for an unsecured personal recognizance bond so he can attend a 'critical commercial meeting' on Monday morning."
"Are they?" I murmured.
I picked up my tea cup, took a single, slow sip, and looked at Marcus.
"Marcus," I said.
May you like
"Yes, Claire?"
"Call the District Attorney directly," I instructed. "Tell him that the victim will be appearing at the bond hearing in person. And tell him to make sure the media pool from Channel 9 and the Denver Post have their high-definition cameras set up in the front row of the gallery."
