Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Court
Z
My hands remained dead steady as I zoomed in on the security video screen. I watched my father point up at my third-floor apartment window while the private investigator pulled out a camera with a long telephoto lens, snapping pictures of my balcony, my vehicle's parking space, and the building entrances.
They thought they were being discreet. They didn't realize that I had paid for the building's upgraded security system out of my own pocket two years ago as a favor to Mr. Alvarez—meaning I had direct access to every angle, including the audio feeds in the main parking lot.
I tapped the screen, enabling the high-sensitivity directional microphone on the exterior camera post.
"—needs to be documented," my father’s sharp, authoritative voice cut through the ambient noise of traffic. "Every shift she works, every hour the child is left with that nurse neighbor, every bottle of wine she buys at the grocery store. I want proof that she is mentally unstable and neglecting her duties."
"And the child's background?" the investigator asked, his voice low and gravelly.
"Look into the biological parents," Richard commanded, his tone dripping with malice. "Find out if there’s a history of drug addiction, criminality, or mental illness in that girl's bloodline. If we can present a court with evidence that Maya brought a high-risk, dangerous child into a home while unfit to care for her post-surgery, the county will have no choice but to intervene."
My blood ran colder than ice.
They weren't just trying to force me into compliance. They were actively attempting to trigger a Child Protective Services investigation to have Lily removed from my custody and thrown back into the county foster care system—just to punish me for closing my checkbook.
I closed the security app, looked at the doctor who was wrapping up my examination, and stood up.
"Everything looks good with the incision, Ms. Vance," the doctor said, handing me a prescription for mild painkillers. "Just make sure you don't do any heavy lifting for the next three weeks."
"Doctor," I said, looking her dead in the eye. "Can you provide me with an official, notarized letter stating that my post-op recovery is progressing normally, that I am fully lucid, off heavy narcotics, and entirely capable of parenting my daughter?"
The doctor looked surprised, then her expression softened into deep empathy. She had seen messy family dynamics before. "I can have my office administrator draft and notarize that letter within thirty minutes."
"Thank you," I said. "Please make three copies."
When I stepped back into the hospital lobby, I immediately dialed Melissa Grant.
"Melissa," I said, stepping into a quiet corner. "My father just hired a private investigator named Frank Miller—I recognized the logo on his briefcase from local court registries. They are trying to manufacture a CPS report against me."
Melissa’s voice went deadly quiet. "They are playing with fire. Fabricating or instigating a bad-faith CPS report in the state of Ohio is a third-degree misdemeanor, and doing so to interfere with a legal adoption finalization can lead to severe civil liability. Did you get video and audio?"
"Clear as day," I said. "Full HD, time-stamped, with clear audio of my father instructing the PI to dig up dirt on Lily's biological family."
"Send it to me right now," Melissa ordered. "I am going to personally file an emergency Motion for an Injunction and a Civil Protection Order in Franklin County Domestic Relations Court. I’m also calling the judge’s magistrate on call. We will have a court date within seventy-two hours."
"What about tonight?" I asked, my grip tightening on my purse. "I don't want Lily anywhere near my apartment if they are staking it out."
"Do you have somewhere safe to go outside the city?" Melissa asked.
I thought for a second. "My ex-boyfriend, Daniel. He owns a private property with a guest house in Delaware County, forty minutes north. My family doesn't know where it is."
"Go there immediately," Melissa advised. "Pick up Lily from Dr. Shaw’s office, pack two weeks of clothes, and do not inform anyone of your location. Let them stake out an empty apartment while the legal net closes around them."
An hour later, I was driving my SUV through the gray drizzle along Interstate 71 North. In the backseat, Lily was fast asleep, her cheek pressed against the window, her tiny fingers wrapped tightly around her stuffed fox.
I glanced in my rearview mirror. A black sedan had pulled onto the highway three miles back and was maintaining a steady distance behind us.
Frank Miller was tailing us.
A slow, vicious smile spread across my face. They thought I was fleeing in fear. They had no idea I was leading them directly into a trap.
I pulled off the highway at an exit known for its heavy local police presence and pulled directly into the brightly lit parking lot of the Delaware County Sheriff's Substation.
The black sedan slammed on its brakes, realizing too late where I had pulled in, and tried to make a frantic U-turn at the intersection.
It was too late.
I had already dialed the local dispatch five minutes prior, reporting a suspicious vehicle following a recovering surgery patient and a minor child. Two marked sheriff cruisers pulled out of the station driveway with their lights flashing, boxing the black sedan in against the curb before it could make its escape.
I parked my car safely in front of the station doors, stepped out into the cold air, and watched through the rain as the officers ordered Frank Miller out of his vehicle with his hands up.
I adjusted my coat over my healing abdomen, walked up to the lead officer, and handed him a printed copy of my attorney's emergency court filing along with my hospital discharge papers.
"Good evening, Officer," I said politely. "That man has been stalking my minor daughter under the instruction of individuals currently subject to a pending domestic protective order. I'd like to press charges for menacing and stalking."
The private investigator looked at me over the hood of his car, his face pale with shock.
May you like
"You're crazy," he muttered. "I was just doing a job."
"Your job just got you a stay in the county jail, Mr. Miller," I replied coldly. "Welcome to the Vance family drama. It costs a lot more than you think."
