Part 2: The Match I Almost Threw
By the time I reached the Sterling estate, the storm had thinned to a cold drizzle and the sky was darkening again. I parked my truck behind a row of oak trees near the property and sat for a long while staring at the mansion glowing warmly on the hill. The house looked peaceful and elegant, untouched by consequences. Meanwhile my daughter was hooked to machines, fighting to stay alive.
All through the drive I had replayed Chloe’s words in my head. Eleanor held me down. Liam used the golf club. Each time I remembered them, my grip on the steering wheel tightened. I thought of all the moments I had let slide over the years because Chloe begged me not to interfere. I remembered the bruises she explained away, the nervous smiles at family dinners, and the way Liam constantly mocked her background while Eleanor treated her like hired help.
Now my daughter was in a coma because I had believed things would somehow improve.
I climbed out of the truck, took the gasoline can, and crept toward the back patio. Through the huge glass windows I could see Liam Sterling sprawled on a leather sofa, drink in hand, watching television. He looked relaxed, annoyed only by a sports game, while my daughter and unborn grandchild were still fighting for their lives in intensive care.
A few minutes later Eleanor walked in with a tablet, and Liam laughed at something she said. The sound of that laughter nearly pushed me over the edge.
I unscrewed the cap and began pouring fuel over the wooden deck furniture, along the walls, under the windows, and across the dry landscaping around the foundation. I worked my way around the mansion until almost the entire exterior was soaked. By the time I got to the front porch, the smell of gasoline hung thick in the cold air.
I emptied what was left over the front steps and across the massive oak doors Eleanor was so proud of. Then I backed onto the lawn, reached into my pocket, and pulled out a match.
After I struck it, I just stood there for several seconds, staring at the flame. One throw would turn the whole estate into an inferno within minutes. Liam and Eleanor would wake trapped inside the same terror they had forced on my daughter. In that moment, revenge felt frighteningly easy.
Then my phone began to vibrate.
At first I ignored it, furious that anyone would interrupt me, but the calls kept coming, one after another. Finally I looked down and saw Dr. Mitchell’s name on the screen. My stomach dropped, because I was sure he was calling to tell me Chloe had died.
I answered, expecting the worst.
Instead the doctor sounded breathless with shock. He said Chloe had suddenly stabilized and regained consciousness. The pressure in her brain had unexpectedly dropped, the baby’s heartbeat had grown stronger, and she was trying to speak around the breathing tube. He said she kept asking for me and badly needed me back at the hospital.
The match nearly slipped from my fingers.
I looked back at the mansion while the doctor went on talking. Liam and Eleanor were still inside, completely unaware of how close they had come to dying. For one dangerous second I considered throwing the match anyway. But then I pictured Chloe waking up alone in the ICU while her mother sat in prison charged with murder.
That image stopped me.
I let the extinguished match fall into the wet grass, grabbed the gasoline can, and ran back to my truck. The whole drive to St. Jude’s Hospital blurred through my tears, because during those twenty minutes I realized something important.
Burning the mansion would have ended their lives quickly.
I wanted something slower.
When I reached the ICU, Chloe was awake but barely conscious. Her jaw had been fractured so badly that she couldn’t speak, but the moment she saw me, tears filled her eyes. I held her hand and promised over and over that nobody would ever hurt her again.
Soon afterward a detective came in and explained that Chloe was now stable enough to communicate. The nurse handed her a dry-erase board and a marker. Her hand shook violently as she wrote the names Liam and Eleanor, followed by two horrifying words: golf club.
Then she added one more sentence underneath.
They said the baby was a mistake.
The detective stared at the board in silence, then quietly admitted he finally had enough evidence to get arrest warrants.
Two mornings later, I parked outside the Sterling estate again. This time I wasn’t lurking in the shadows with gasoline and matches. I stood calmly beside my truck with a cup of coffee while armored SWAT vehicles smashed through the front gates.
Officers stormed the mansion and dragged Liam Sterling out in handcuffs while he screamed that it was all a misunderstanding. Eleanor followed moments later, still demanding lawyers and threatening politicians. Neither of them looked powerful anymore. They looked like exactly what they truly were.
Violent criminals.
