Chapter 3 - THE SHERIFF’S DILEMMASheriff Arthur Vance—no relation to Thomas, though in a small county like Silver Creek, everyone was entangled in webs of debt, marriage, or political obligation—stood just inside the doorway of Claire’s hospital room. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties with tired eyes and a silver mustache stained yellow by unfiltered cigarettes.
He didn't take off his Stetson. He held it in both hands, turning the brim nervously against his belt buckle.
“Mrs. Higgins,” the sheriff said, his voice gravelly and low. “Dr. Evans called my office twenty minutes ago after reviewing your intake charts and the older lacerations. By law, I had to open a domestic assault investigation.”
Sarah stepped between the sheriff and the bed, her body language defensive. “Domestic assault is just the tip of the iceberg, Arthur. Look at the tablet.” She handed the sheriff her iPad, where she had already airdropped the audio file from Maya’s cracked phone.
Sheriff Vance looked skeptical. Small-town sheriffs hated complications. They hated tearing open cold cases that had been neatly filed away years ago. But as he pressed play, listening to Thomas’s cold, threatening voice ranting about the old man’s will, the color drained completely from his weathered face.
He listened to the end. The audio cut off right where Martha’s cackle ended.
“My God,” the sheriff murmured, staring down at the screen. “Where did you get this?”
“My eight-year-old daughter recorded it while her father tied her mother to a beam and whipped her,” Sarah answered without blinking. “And she was standing behind the root cellar three years ago when Thomas pushed her grandfather off the ridge.”
The sheriff looked slowly from Sarah to Claire, and finally down at Maya, who stared back at him with an unflinching, icy glare.
“Thomas is already looking for you,” the sheriff said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “When I left the precinct, he was down at the station demanding to know why a patrol car was dispatched to his mother’s house. He claims you fell down the stairs, Claire. He told half the deputies in town that you’ve been unstable since your father died, prone to self-harm and hysterical delusions.”
Claire felt a cold fury rise from the pit of her stomach—a fury so hot and blinding it burned away every trace of fear she had carried for ten years.
She threw off the rough hospital blanket, ignoring the sharp, tearing pain in her bruised thighs and stitched ribs. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floor.
“Mrs. Higgins, you shouldn’t be—,” Sheriff Vance started, stepping forward.
“Don't you dare tell me what I shouldn't do,” Claire interrupted, her voice shaking with suppressed rage, yet crystal clear. She looked up at the older lawman, her eyes burning with an intensity that made even the seasoned sheriff take a step back. “He killed my father. He murdered my mother. And today, he tried to break me so I’d sign over the remaining deeds to Martha.”
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She stood up, gripping the IV pole for balance. Maya rushed forward, wrapping her small arms around Claire’s waist to support her.
“Sheriff,” Claire said, her voice dropping an octave into pure steel. “You can wait for a warrant, or you can drive me out to the North Pasture right now while Thomas is still wasting time at the precinct. Because when I walk back onto that property, I’m taking my children, I’m taking my land, and I’m making sure that house burns to the ground.”
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