Chapter 8 - The Joyride of Desperation
Thursday arrived with dark, bruised clouds rolling in from the Puget Sound, carrying a torrential Pacific Northwest downpour.
At 3:45 PM, Daniel and I, accompanied by Miller and two sheriff’s deputies, pulled up to the curb of 1412 Lakeshore Drive in Kirkland.
The house was a two-story mid-century craftsman overlooking the grey swells of Lake Washington. It was the house where Grandma Evelyn had baked gingerbread cookies with me while my parents were out at country club galas they couldn't afford. It was the only place in my childhood where I had ever felt safe.
Parked in the driveway was Dad’s old sedan and Chloe’s beat-up Honda.
And parked right behind them was a flatbed tow truck.
The front door of the house was wide open despite the rain. Cardboard boxes were piled haphazardly on the covered porch, their edges softening under the damp mist.
As we stepped out of Daniel’s car, an umbrella shielding us from the rain, my father emerged from the front door carrying a set of golf clubs. When he saw the sheriff’s cruiser, he froze.
“We’re packing, Mia,” he called out, his voice cracked and pathetic against the drum of the rain. “We’re packing as fast as we can! You didn't have to bring the police!”
Deputy Harris, a tall man with a waterproof Stetson, stepped forward. “Mr. Mercer, the forty-eight-hour notice expired forty-five minutes ago. We are here to oversee the lawful handover of possession to the property owner, Mia Vance.”
From inside the house came a sudden, piercing shriek.
Chloe came storming onto the porch, clutching a large duffle bag. Her mascara was smeared down her cheeks, her hair tangled in a messy bun. When she saw me, her eyes burned with pure malice.
“Are you happy now, Queen Mia?” she screamed, pointing an acrylic nail at me. “Look at what you’ve done! Mom’s locked in a cage with drug addicts! Dad’s heart condition is acting up! Marcus dumped me and fled to Idaho because he’s terrified of your husband’s goons! And now you’re stealing the roof over my head!”
“This was never your roof, Chloe,” I said, walking up the front steps until I stood on the porch, out of the rain. “This was Grandma’s house. Grandma left it to me because she knew what you and Mom would do to it if you got your hands on the title.”
“Grandma was senile!” Chloe yelled. “She hated Mom! She hated everyone!”
“She loved the truth,” I said. “Deputy, please escort them off the premises.”
“Wait!” Chloe reached into her pocket and pulled out a small black fob with a silver three-pointed star.
My eyes narrowed.
It was the spare key to the AMG GLE 63.
The key that had been missing from the presentation box on my wedding day.
Daniel’s face darkened instantly. “Where did you get that?”
Chloe laughed—a wild, hysterical laugh that sounded completely unhinged. “Mom stole it from your jacket during the cocktail hour before the reception, you arrogant prick! You thought you were so clever with your trust documents? You thought you could lock me out of my future?”
Before anyone could react, Chloe leaped off the porch steps, sprinted across the wet lawn, and hit the unlock button.
Fifty feet away, parked across the street under a row of weeping willows, the silver luxury SUV’s headlights flashed amber.
She had hidden it there overnight.
“Chloe, don't!” Dad yelled, dropping his golf clubs onto the wet gravel. “Chloe, stop it!”
Chloe ripped open the driver’s side door, threw her duffle bag onto the passenger seat, and slammed the heavy door shut. The twin-turbo V8 engine roared to life with a deep, menacing guttural growl that echoed across the quiet neighborhood.
“Deputy!” Daniel shouted.
Deputy Harris was already running down the driveway, reaching for his radio. “Suspect in stolen vehicle! Unit 4 requesting immediate traffic stop at Lakeshore and 14th!”
The SUV’s tires spun on the wet asphalt, sending up a roostertail of spray, and launched forward. Chloe didn't just drive away—she floored it, the high-performance engine screaming as she rocketed down the winding lakeside road toward the interstate on-ramp.
“Get in,” Daniel said, pulling me toward his car.
“Daniel, no!” I grabbed his arm. “Let the police handle it! She’s out of her mind!”
“She’s driving a three-ton vehicle in a residential zone at eighty miles an hour during a storm, Mia,” Daniel said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “If she hits someone, this ends in a tragedy.”
We jumped into Daniel’s Range Rover, Miller sliding into the front passenger seat with his laptop already open.
“Vance Vehicle Telematics is active,” Miller said, fingers flying across his keyboard. “The car has an integrated remote recovery system through our fleet management software.”
“Can you cut the engine?” Daniel asked, throwing the car into reverse and swinging out onto the road behind Deputy Harris’s cruiser.
“Not while it’s traveling over thirty-five—safety regulations won't allow sudden power cuts at high speed,” Miller replied, tracking a blinking red dot moving rapidly down Lakeshore Drive. “But I can limit the throttle to fifteen miles per hour and engage the hazard lights the second she slows down for the roundabout at 8th Street.”
Through the rain-streaked windshield, we saw the flashing red and blue lights of two more Kirkland police cruisers joining the pursuit ahead of us.
Up ahead, where Lakeshore Drive curved sharply around a rocky bluff overlooking the lake, the silver SUV was visible, its tail lights glowing like angry embers in the grey gloom.
Chloe was driving erratically, bouncing off the curb, clipping garbage cans set out for collection, completely out of control.
“Roundabout approaching in five hundred feet,” Miller called out. “Speed is sixty-two… fifty-five… she’s hitting the brakes!”
“Cut the throttle,” Daniel ordered.
“Throttle cut executed,” Miller said, hitting the enter key.
Ahead of us, the silver SUV’s hazard lights flashed rapidly. The massive engine suddenly lost its acceleration, the exhaust popping as the electronic control unit forced the vehicle into limp mode.
Chloe panicked.
Instead of steering through the roundabout, she yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, trying to force the car onto an access road. On the slick, wet pavement, the sudden jerk broke the tires’ traction.
The silver SUV spun a full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, its rear quarter-panel glancing off a concrete decorative boulder in the center of the roundabout with a sickening crunch of tearing aluminum and shattering glass.
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The car shuddered, slid sideways across the wet grass, and came to an abrupt, final halt against a sturdy cedar sign that read: *WELCOME TO KIRKLAND.*
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