Chapter 2 - The Crimson Trail
Without waiting for them to process my words, I turned my back on the dining room table, stepped over the broken shards of stoneware, and walked down the hallway toward the front door.
“Maya! Get back here! We aren’t finished talking!” my father bellowed from behind me, his authority suddenly sounding less like command and more like panic. He sensed, on some primal, instinctual level, that something fundamental had just shifted.
“I’m done talking,” I called back over my shoulder without breaking stride. “Enjoy your pie.”
I pulled open the front door and stepped out into the crisp November air. The wind bit sharply at my face, but I barely felt it. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins, hot and electric. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and unlocked the screen.
The blood from my hand smeared across the glass, but the biometric scanner recognized my thumbprint anyway.
I tapped open a hidden, password-protected folder labeled ARCHIVE-PROJECT. Inside sat forty-two screenshots of text messages, three raw audio recordings of my father screaming death threats down my voicemail, and a digital copy of the independent land trust deed that my grandfather had quietly registered in my name ten years before he passed away—a deed my father had spent a decade trying to legally dismantle.
And now, I had a fresh ER-bound injury report waiting to happen.
I didn't go straight to the studio. Instead, I walked down the long gravel driveway toward my battered pickup truck parked by the old oak tree. As I reached for the door handle, headlights swept across the yard. A local sheriff’s cruiser cruised slowly past the property, its light bar dark, patrolling the rural suburban road for holiday DUIs.
An idea bloomed in my mind—cold, tactical, and entirely brilliant.
Instead of driving off into the night to nurse my wound, I tapped my phone again and dialed a direct, non-emergency extension.
“County Sheriff’s Dispatch, Officer Miller speaking. How can I help you?”
“Yes, my name is Maya Vance,” I said, keeping my voice remarkably even. “I’m reporting an incident of domestic assault and property destruction that just occurred at 4428 Ridge Road. My father threw a ceramic dinner plate at my head, shattering it against the wall and severely lacerating my hand with flying shrapnel. There are minor children present, and the aggressor is currently intoxicated and escalating.”
On the other end of the line, the dispatcher’s professional tone instantly snapped into razor-sharp alert.
“Copy that, Ms. Vance. Are you currently in a safe location?”
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“I am outside in my vehicle,” I replied, watching the warm yellow lights of my family’s dining room glow through the trees. “And I have digital evidence of prior threats ready to hand over to the responding deputies the second they arrive.”
“Stay in your vehicle, ma’am,” the dispatcher commanded. “Units are being dispatched to your location Code 3 right now.”
