Chapter 2 - EASTER ENDS IN AN AMBULANCE
The paramedics arrived minutes later.
Dad was not allowed beside me immediately.
He had punched Ethan.
That mattered.
Officer Grant treated the two acts separately.
Ethan hurting me.
Dad hitting Ethan after I was already out of Ethan’s reach.
I hated the distinction because emotionally they felt connected.
Legally, they were not necessarily the same.
One paramedic checked my pupils.
Another examined my shoulder.
“Any trouble breathing?”
“No.”
“Loss of consciousness?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“No.”
Grant crouched nearby.
“Emily, did Ethan Caldwell strike you today?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He slapped me upstairs. Then downstairs he grabbed my shoulder and pushed me when I tried to call Dad.”
“Did you fall because of the push?”
“Yes.”
“Any strangulation?”
“No.”
“Weapons?”
“No.”
“Threats to kill you?”
I hesitated.
“He says if I leave, I’ll regret what happens.”
“To you?”
“He doesn’t always say.”
Grant wrote.
“Has he hit you before?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t know.”
“More than five?”
“Yes.”
“More than ten?”
My eyes dropped.
“Probably.”
No gasp.
No pity.
Just writing.
That helped.
Then he asked:
“What happened before today’s assault?”
I looked across the room.
Margaret sat with another officer.
Elegant blouse.
Jewelry.
Perfect hair.
She looked offended that Easter had become police procedure.
“We argued about papers.”
Grant’s pen stopped.
“What papers?”
“I only saw part.”
“Name?”
“Caldwell Continuity Authorization.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“What was Ethan asking you to do?”
“Sign.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He wouldn’t let my attorney review them.”
“Then?”
“I said I was leaving after Easter lunch.”
“And he hit you?”
“Not right away.”
Grant nodded.
Chronology.
Then:
“Did Margaret touch you?”
“No.”
“Did she encourage Ethan?”
“She told him to stop letting me destroy the family.”
“Exact words?”
“As close as I remember.”
“What did she mean?”
“I thought the marriage.”
I swallowed.
“Now I’m not sure.”
The paramedic lifted my arm carefully.
Pain shot into my shoulder.
“We’re taking you for imaging.”
I nodded.
Then Grant asked:
“Did you know there were hidden cameras inside the residence?”
“No.”
“Any interior security system you knew about?”
“Exterior cameras. Doorbell. That’s it.”
“The camera Officer Grant recovered was hidden behind a decorative vent facing the family room.”
My stomach turned.
“How long?”
“We don’t know.”
“Was it recording?”
“Active transmission.”
“To where?”
“Working on that.”
From the other room Ethan shouted:
“You don’t have permission to access that system!”
Grant glanced toward the door.
Then back at me.
“Do you know why tactical officers were dispatched?”
“No.”
I assumed Dad had called them somehow.
He had not.
Grant said:
“Dispatch received a domestic violence report involving registered firearms at the residence.”
Ethan owned three.
Locked in a safe.
At least I believed they were.
“And your father contacted police before entering.”
I stared.
“Dad called?”
Grant looked toward him.
Dad shook his head slowly.
“I called when I got the message.”
“What message?”
Dad took out his phone.
At 10:16 a.m.:
COME NOW. EMILY IS NOT SAFE. DO NOT CALL HER. POLICE ALERTED.
Unknown number.
I had not sent it.
Grant photographed the screen.
“Someone else was watching.”
My skin went cold.
The ambulance took me to St. Anne’s Medical Center.
X-rays showed no fracture.
Soft-tissue injury in the shoulder.
Facial swelling.
Bruising.
The forensic nurse documented older marks too.
One near my ribs.
Two around my upper arm.
One behind my shoulder.
Different stages.
I wanted the hospital bed to swallow me.
Dad eventually came in.
His knuckles were red.
I looked at them.
“You shouldn’t have hit him.”
“I know.”
That surprised me.
“You regret it?”
“I regret losing control.”
He looked toward the floor.
“I don’t regret wanting to.”
I almost smiled.
Then:
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because he said you’d come after him.”
Dad looked at his hand.
“I did.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I know.”
“He said he’d destroy you if you interfered.”
Dad’s head lifted.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Officer Grant entered then.
“We traced the camera account.”
My pulse changed.
“To Ethan?”
“Not exactly.”
Grant set down an access report.
“The cloud subscription is registered to Caldwell Family Risk Services.”
Dad stared at the page.
“Risk Services?”
“You know it?”
Dad nodded slowly.
“That company was dissolved after Gerald Caldwell died.”
Margaret’s late husband.
Ethan’s father.
Six years ago.
Grant looked back at the report.
“Someone revived the account eight months ago.”
May you like
Eight months.
The same month Ethan first put his hands on me.
