Chapter 3 - The Fortress of Arrogance
Thirty miles away, perched high upon the bluffs of Oyster Bay, the Sterling estate glowed like a gilded beacon. Inside the grand dining pavilion, crystal chandeliers illuminated an untouched feast of poached lobster and vintage champagne.
Amanda Sterling lounged against an Italian marble console, sipping vintage Dom Pérignon while inspecting her manicured nails. "Honestly, Mark," she laughed, waving a dismissive hand, "Eleanor is such a dramatic peasant. That girl probably threw herself over just to ruin my summer showcase. She always was desperate for attention."
Victoria Sterling, the matriarch whose cosmetic surgeries held her face in a perpetual mask of aristocratic disdain, tapped her spoon against her porcelain teacup. "We will settle the hospital invoice privately, of course. A few thousand dollars should satisfy Eleanor's middle-class sensibilities. But Mark, you must reconsider this marriage. A woman whose child creates public spectacles at charity functions is wholly unsuitable for the family firm."
"I've already handled it, Mother," Mark said smoothly, refilling his flute. "I warned Eleanor she’ll be penniless if she pursues this nonsense. She’ll come crawling back by morning."
The heavy mahogany front doors did not open; they were shattered inward off their brass hinges with the concussive force of a breaching ram.
Screams erupted from the remaining guests as a dozen tactical officers in tactical armor and ballistic shields flooded the marble foyer, carbines raised in low-ready positions. Behind them walked Detective Miller, his badge flashing under the chandeliers, accompanied by two crime scene technicians bearing forensic equipment and yellow evidence cases.
"Nobody move!" an officer bellowed. "Hands where we can see them!"
Victoria stood up, trembling with outrage, knocking her wine glass into a bowl of caviar. "What is the meaning of this barbarism? Do you know who my late husband was? Get out of my home immediately!"
"Victoria Sterling, Mark Sterling, and Amanda Sterling," Detective Miller said flatly, pulling a tri-fold warrant from his breast pocket. "This property is officially declared an active crime scene under a state warrant signed by Chief Judge Harrison thirty minutes ago. You are all detained for questioning regarding the attempted second-degree murder of Chloe Vance-Davis."
Amanda scoffed, though the color abruptly drained from her bronzed cheeks. "Murder? Are you insane? It was an accident! I'm Amanda Sterling! Mark, tell them! Call the governor!"
"I am already attempting to," Mark stammered, pulling out his iPhone, only to have it ripped violently from his grip by an officer who immediately sealed it in a faraday evidence bag.
"Phones, tablets, home security servers, and clothing are being seized under emergency preservation orders," Detective Miller announced coldly. "Miss Amanda Sterling, step forward and place your hands behind your back."
"Don't you dare touch me with those filthy gloves!" Amanda shrieked, backing away toward the terrace glass doors.
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Two female troopers moved in without hesitation, pinning Amanda against the polished dining table, sweeping her legs out, and wrenching her arms behind her back with a sharp, metallic click of steel cuffs. For the first time in her pampered life, Amanda Sterling’s face touched cold, indifferent dirt.
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