Chapter 5 - The Police Raid
Red and blue lights aggressively flashed through the large bay windows of the living room.
Tires screeched on the gravel driveway as three police cruisers boxed in my grandmother’s estate.
Penelope immediately threw herself onto the hardwood floor and began screaming for help.
She tore the collar of her expensive silk blouse and purposefully scratched her own cheek to draw blood.
"Help me!" Penelope wailed at the top of her lungs.
Officers kicked the front door open, rushing into the house with their flashlights sweeping the darkness.
"Drop your weapons and step away from the victim!" a loud voice commanded.
I stood perfectly still in the hallway, my hands raised clearly in the air.
"I am unarmed, Officer," I said calmly, refusing to let Penelope’s theatrics break my composure.
Two officers grabbed my arms, shoving me against the wall and snapping cold metal handcuffs onto my wrists.
Jacqueline stepped out of the home office, holding her phone up to record the entire interaction.
"I am Jacqueline Ross, legal counsel for Stephanie Gilbert," she announced firmly.
"My client has committed no crime, and this woman is staging a domestic dispute to cover up corporate fraud."
The lead officer ignored Jacqueline and knelt beside Penelope, who was putting on the performance of a lifetime.
"She went crazy when her husband left her," Penelope sobbed, pointing a shaking finger at me.
"She attacked me and threatened to kill the newborn babies my son just brought home!"
The officer glared at me, his hand resting instinctively on his holster.
"You are under arrest for domestic battery and making terroristic threats," the officer barked.
They dragged me out the front door and shoved me into the back of a freezing police cruiser.
I sat in the dark, watching my beautiful home shrink in the distance as the car sped toward the precinct.
Christopher had planned this perfectly.
He wanted me locked in a holding cell so I couldn't freeze the offshore bank accounts before the funds fully cleared.
My phone, which was still in my jacket pocket, vibrated intensely against my hip.
I awkwardly shimmied my cuffed hands around my side to dig the phone out.
The screen lit up with an urgent email from the DNA laboratory.
The subject line read: "CRITICAL MATCH - IMMEDIATE ATTENTION REQUIRED."
I managed to open the email using my thumb, my heart stopping as I read the preliminary report.
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The babies did not belong to Sabrina, nor were they random black-market infants.
The DNA matched a missing persons report filed by a frantic mother in a neighboring state just forty-eight hours ago.
