Chapter 3 - The Broken Seal
The metallic click of the cuffs closing around Arthur’s right wrist snapped Julianna out of her daze. She stepped back, bumping into the side table and sending an antique porcelain vase crashing onto the hardwood floor. Nobody looked at the shards.
“Get your hands off me!” Arthur shouted, twisting violently, but Vance’s partner, a younger detective with a rugby player’s shoulders, caught his arm in a joint lock that drove Arthur to his knees against the Persian rug.
“Save the breath, Arthur,” Vance said, ratcheting the second cuff tight. “You’ve had seven comfortable years on five hundred thousand pounds of blood money. The Crown’s been waiting on the salvage receipts since Tuesday.”
Julianna pressed her palms against her temples. “The wedding… the guests are arriving tomorrow from Boston. My father booked the entire cathedral.”
Clara turned to her with a look that was not cruel, but stripped of pity. “Cancel the caterers, Julianna. And call an attorney who specializes in asset seizure. Half of what he gave you was purchased with the payout.”
Arthur raised his head from the floor, his face flushed red, hair wild. “You think you’ve won, Clara? You think Lily will just welcome you back? She doesn’t know you! You’re a ghost to her!”
Clara didn’t blink. “She knew my lullaby, Arthur. That was enough for her to unlock the side gate this morning.”
The realization hit Arthur like ice water. The unlocked gate. The dog that hadn’t barked. Lily had let her in.
“You used our daughter,” Arthur hissed, spitting the words.
“I rescued her from a man who cuts brake cables,” Clara answered softly.
The young detective hoisted Arthur to his feet by the collar of his tailored jacket. As they marched him toward the doorway, Arthur caught sight of his reflection in the hallway mirror: a broken man in an unbuttoned suit, dragged through the home he had stolen.
In the foyer, Lily was sitting on the lowest step of the staircase, her pink backpack on her lap. When she saw Arthur in handcuffs, she didn't scream or cry. She merely watched him with eyes that had seen too much grief for a child of ten.
“Lily,” Arthur pleaded, straining against the detectives' grip. “Tell them. Tell them your mother left us!”
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Lily looked down at her scuffed school shoes. Then she pulled a small brass key from her pocket—the key to Arthur’s locked desk drawer in the study—and held it out to Inspector Vance.
“He kept her passport in the floorboard,” Lily said quietly. “Under the safe.”
