Chapter 7 - The Confrontation
Vanessa did not call the police dispatcher.
She dialed the direct cell phone number of Detective Miller, a friend of her lawyer who specialized in organized crime.
"Detective, Todd Grant is about to burn my house down with my sister inside," Vanessa said the moment he answered.
Miller's tone instantly shifted to high alert.
"Do you have proof, Ms. Carter?"
"I have them on tape discussing the life insurance payout and pouring the accelerant," she replied.
"I am three blocks away with a tactical unit serving a warrant on an unrelated case," Miller said quickly.
"Do not go back inside that house, Vanessa, let us handle it."
Vanessa hung up the phone, her hands shaking violently.
She looked at the dark silhouette of her house, knowing her sister was trapped upstairs with a killer.
Despite the detective's warning, Vanessa could not sit in the car and do nothing.
She grabbed a heavy metal tire iron from her trunk and marched back toward the front door.
She bypassed the security detail again, walking boldly up the front steps.
She didn't bother using the key.
She raised the tire iron and smashed the glass panel on the front door, reaching in to unlock the deadbolt.
The sound of shattering glass echoed like a gunshot through the quiet suburban street.
Vanessa kicked the door open and stepped into the pitch-black hallway.
"Melissa!" Vanessa screamed at the top of her lungs.
A flashlight beam cut through the darkness from the top of the stairs.
Todd stood on the landing, holding a heavy silver crowbar, his eyes wide with genuine shock.
"What the hell are you doing back here?" Todd yelled.
"I know about the Vegas debt, Todd, and I know about the gasoline in the basement," Vanessa stated firmly.
Todd's face drained of color, his fake bravado instantly evaporating.
He rushed down the stairs, swinging the crowbar wildly at Vanessa's head.
Vanessa ducked beneath the swing and slammed the tire iron directly into Todd's kneecap.
Todd let out a high-pitched scream, collapsing onto the hardwood floor in agony.
Frank rushed out of the kitchen, holding a lighter in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other.
"You should have stayed away, little lady," Frank growled, flicking the lighter open.
Before Frank could throw the open flame down the basement stairs, a blinding spotlight flooded the living room through the broken front window.
"Plano Police Department! Drop the weapons!" a voice boomed over a loudspeaker.
Frank froze, the tiny flame flickering wildly in his trembling hand.
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He looked at the open basement door, calculating if he had enough time to start the fire before the police breached the house.
He raised his hand, preparing to throw the lighter into the fumes.
