Chapter 3 - The Broken Window
Clara moved like a phantom toward the heavy blackout curtains. Her hand curled tightly around the electric clipper on the bedside table, its metal blade the only weapon within reach. The glass of the French doors shivered again under a muffled strike.
A figure in a dark hooded windbreaker stood silhouetted against the terrace lights. The silhouette reached down, sliding a thin polymer wedge between the frame and the lock. With a dull crack, the latch gave way.
The door swung inward, letting in a bitter draft of September air that whipped across Clara's shorn head. The stranger stepped inside and immediately lowered his hood.
""Doctor Mitchell?"" Clara breathed, lowering the clipper.
""Vance didn't want to wait until 3:00 AM,"" the silver-haired physician whispered urgently, setting a black medical leather bag on the vanity. ""He said if you were calling, it meant blood was drawn. Turn toward the light, Clara. Quickly.""
Dr. Mitchell pulled out a penlight and an ultra-high-resolution forensic camera. When the beam washed over Clara’s raw skull, the veteran doctor cursed under his breath.
""God in heaven... who did this?""
""Julian held me down,"" Clara said tonelessly. ""Eleanor used the blade first, then the clippers. She said scars would teach me humility. She had an unlicensed plastic surgeon suture it in the basement three days ago when I tried to leave.""
Mitchell took dozens of high-speed macro photographs, capturing the irregular, infected stitch patterns, the bruising behind her ears, and the deep ligature impressions around her wrists. ""This isn't just assault. This is aggravated torture. Clara, the board meeting tomorrow will be a slaughterhouse for Julian if we show this to the district attorney.""
""No police yet,"" Clara countered sharply, grabbing Mitchell’s wrist. ""Julian has the police commissioner on payroll through the country club. If the police arrive tonight, Eleanor will claim I did this to myself during a manic break. She’s already seeded that story for two years.""
""Then what is your plan?"" Mitchell asked, unpacking sterile surgical scissors and antiseptic. ""I have to clean these sutures before sepsis sets in. These threads are industrial nylon. They’re rotting your tissue.""
""Take them out,"" Clara commanded, sitting in the vanity chair. ""Remove every single knot. Clean the wounds, but don't close them completely. Bandage me tightly so I can walk tomorrow.""
Mitchell hesitated, looking into her eyes. He saw no hysteria, no trembling victim seeking sympathy. He saw an executioner waiting for the clock to strike.
""Bite down on this towel,"" Mitchell murmured grimly, placing a folded linen between her teeth.
For the next forty minutes, Clara did not make a single sound. Agony ripped through her scalp as Mitchell snipped and extracted eight thick, infected stitches from her swollen flesh. Fresh crimson trickled down her cheekbones, but she kept her gaze fixed on the wall clock.
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Just as Mitchell wrapped the final layer of medical gauze across her brow, a loud thump reverberated from the floorboards directly beneath them—the ceiling of Eleanor’s suite.
Suddenly, Eleanor’s high-pitched voice screeched from the staircase: ""Julian! Wake up! Someone is upstairs!""
