Chapter 4 - The Driveway on Elmwood
At 8:45 AM, Cressida Aloud was standing in her walk-in closet on Elmwood Drive, trying to decide between the taupe suede ankle boots and the burgundy loafers for her morning pilates class.
The house was four thousand square feet of new-construction modern farmhouse: white board-and-batten siding, black window frames, and twenty-foot ceilings designed to look impressive in Instagram reels.
In the living room, eight-year-old Draven was sitting on the sectional sofa, violently mashing the buttons of an iPad while eating sugar-frosted cereal straight from the cardboard box, dropping crumbs onto the nine-thousand-dollar silk-wool rug Cressida had ordered from Atlanta.
Her phone buzzed on the marble vanity.
It was her mother.
Cressida tapped the speakerphone icon while fastening a gold bracelet around her wrist. "Mom, I told you, I have pilates at nine-fifteen. If this is about the caterer’s refund—"
"Cressida, listen to me!" Morwenna’s voice was unrecognizable. It wasn't the measured, aristocratic purr she used at the country club; it was raw, gasping, and ragged with panic. "The police are here. They just left the house."
Cressida frowned, her mascara wand pausing an inch from her lashes. "What are you talking about? Did Vesper’s little indexer friends try to vandalize the driveway?"
"No! The sheriff! They served an injunction on your father! They froze the LLC account! They said... Cressida, they said there's a warrant for you!"
Cressida let out a sharp, dismissive bark of laughter. "A warrant? For what? Touching Vesper’s pathetic little apron? Mom, Marcus Gannon already took care of it. Balthazar pays his golf fees every spring. Marcus said he’d file it as an accidental fall."
"Marcus Gannon has been suspended!" Morwenna shrieked through the tiny speaker. "They had state troopers with them, Cressida! And some woman—some high-powered lawyer from Raleigh! She said they have the video!"
Cressida’s hand froze.
"What video?"
"The security camera! The one Alaric let Vesper install on the patio! It recorded everything! The sound, Cressida! It recorded you calling her a parasite and hitting her with the bag! They have it in four-K!"
Cressida dropped the mascara wand. It rolled across the white marble vanity, leaving a black, greasy streak across the stone.
"That's impossible," Cressida whispered. "Dad told her to take that down before the party."
"She didn't take it down! She controlled the account from her phone!"
Before Cressida could reply, Draven’s shrill voice screamed from the front living room:
"MOM! THERE'S A BUNCH OF POLICE TRUCKS IN THE YARD! THEY'RE DRIVING ON THE FLOWERS!"
Cressida dropped the phone.
She sprinted through the master bedroom, down the open hardwood staircase, and into the two-story foyer.
Through the tall glass panels of the front entrance, she saw what her son was yelling about.
Three Cumberland County Sheriff’s patrol cruisers were parked diagonally across her cobblestone driveway, blocking her leased Range Rover. Behind them was an unmarked gray Dodge Durango.
Four deputies in tactical vests, their sidearms holstered but their hands resting on their chests, were walking up the brick walkway.
At the front of the group walked a female investigator wearing a gold shield on her belt and carrying a clipboard.
Cressida’s heart hit the back of her ribs like a trapped bird. "No," she muttered, backing away from the door until her spine hit the newel post of the stairs. "No, this doesn't happen to people like me. This is a mistake. Balthazar will fix this."
She lunged for the front door, turned the deadbolt, and ripped it open before the deputies could knock.
"What is the meaning of this?" Cressida screamed, her voice climbing into the octave she used when waiters brought the wrong vintage of wine. "You are trespassing on private property! Get off my lawn! My husband is Balthazar Aloud—he has business with the Pentagon! Do you know what he will do to your careers?"
The female investigator didn't flinch. She didn't raise her voice. She stepped onto the covered porch, produced a folded document from her folio, and looked Cressida directly in the eyes.
"Cressida Cross Aloud?"
"I am Mrs. Aloud! And you need to leave immediately before I call the county commissioner!"
"Cressida Aloud," the investigator said, reading from the document with absolute neutrality, "I have a warrant for your arrest issued by the General Court of Justice, District Court Division of Cumberland County, charging you with one count of Assault Inflicting Serious Bodily Injury, a Class C felony, and one count of Extortion under North Carolina General Statutes § 14-118.4."
"What?" Cressida shrieked. "She fell! The girl fell because she was drunk and tried to attack my child!"
"Ma'am," the investigator said, stepping forward as two male deputies moved onto the porch behind her, "we have reviewed the four-thousand-pixel digital surveillance recording recovered from the scene. We have also reviewed the sworn statements of four catering staff members and three party guests who came forward to the sheriff’s office yesterday afternoon after learning your sister’s jaw had been wired shut."
"They're lying!" Cressida screamed, thrashing backward into the foyer. "Vesper paid them! She’s jealous! She’s been jealous of me her whole life because she married a loser who left her!"
"Turn around and place your hands behind your back," the deputy on the right said, drawing a pair of cuffs from his belt.
"Don't you dare touch me!" Cressida shrieked, swinging her arm toward the deputy’s face. "Don't you touch this sweater—it's Loro Piana! GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!"
The two deputies didn't hesitate.
They stepped inside, took her by the forearms with practiced, joint-locking leverage, and spun her face-first against the white wainscoting of her two-story foyer.
Her cheek slammed into the painted wood.
"Draven!" she screamed, her voice cracking into pure hysteria. "Draven, call your grandfather! CALL ALARIC!"
Draven stood at the edge of the living room, clutching his iPad to his chest, his eyes wide and terrifyingly silent as his mother was forced down onto her knees.
*Click-click.*
The cold steel closed around Cressida’s wrists, pinching the skin below her gold Cartier bracelet.
"You're making a mistake!" Cressida sobbed, her mascara running down her cheeks in thick, gray rivers as they pulled her upright by the elbows. "Where is Balthazar? Call my husband! He’s at Pinehurst! He’s having breakfast with the Department of Defense!"
The female investigator picked up Cressida’s dropped phone from the floor, along with the four-thousand-five-hundred-dollar Italian handbag that was sitting on the entry console table—the one with the brass-reinforced corners that still carried microscopic traces of Vesper’s skin and blood in the grain of the leather.
May you like
"Your husband," the investigator said, slipping the handbag into a large brown evidence sack, "is currently being processed at the federal courthouse in Fayetteville. You'll be able to see him across the yard during recreation time at the county detention facility."
***
