Chapter 5 - The Handcuffs on Fifth Avenue
CLICK-CLACK.
Two federal marshals stepped inside Victoria’s personal space, unholstering heavy steel handcuffs.
“Victoria Sterling,” Detective Inspector Cole read from the certified federal warrant:
“You are under arrest for Federal Kidnapping, Deprivation of Civil Rights, Tampering with Official State Vital Records, Bribery of Medical Personnel, and Grand Larceny Exceeding Fifty Million Dollars.”
“Don't you dare touch me!” Victoria shrieked—a high, piercing animal scream that echoed off the granite facades of Fifth Avenue:
“Do you know who my family is?! My husband sits on the board of the Metropolitan Museum! Ethan! Call them off! We can settle this privately! I gave that girl the best life money could buy!”
Clara turned around in Ethan’s arms.
The homeless mother—who had slept on cardboard beneath bridges, who had survived on stale bread while singing her lullaby to the rain—stepped forward.
She looked at Victoria with eyes that had burned away all fear:
“You didn't give her a life, Victoria,” Clara whispered.
“You gave her a cage. You kept her in the dark because every time you looked at her face, you were reminded of the thief you really are.”
CRACK.
The steel handcuffs ratcheted around Victoria Sterling’s manicured wrists with a concussive, echoing snap.
They dragged her across the wet sidewalk, her designer heels scuffing through the gutter, past hundreds of onlookers who jeered and filmed her humiliation, shoving her into the rear of the lead police cruiser.
The heavy steel door slammed shut:
THUD.
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The convoy rolled down Fifth Avenue, the flashing red and blue strobe lights painting the shop windows in rhythmic slashes of emergency color.
The sidewalk was clean.
