Chapter 4 - THE FIRST COUNTERATTACK
By sunrise, the story had reached the media.
The headline appeared before Emily had even been discharged.
ARMY COLONEL INTERFERES IN DAUGHTER’S MENTAL HEALTH CRISIS.
The article described Ethan as a devoted husband.
It described Margaret as a respected philanthropist.
It described Emily as emotionally unstable.
I was accused of using my military position to intimidate hospital employees and local police.
None of it was true.
Truth had never been the Prescott family’s first weapon.
Reputation was.
My commanding officer called at 6:20 in the morning.
Major General Warren Cole did not waste words.
“Victoria, the Department of the Army has received a complaint.”
“I expected one.”
“They are accusing you of appearing in uniform during a private domestic dispute.”
“My daughter called while I was leaving duty.”
“Did you threaten anyone?”
“No.”
“Did you imply military action?”
“No.”
“Did you request special treatment?”
“No.”
He paused.
“Can you prove that?”
“Yes.”
“Then document everything.”
“I already have.”
“That is why you are still a colonel.”
General Cole’s voice softened.
“How is Emily?”
“Alive.”
“That was not what I asked.”
“No.”
I looked at her sleeping face.
“She is not all right.”
“Take care of your daughter.”
“I intend to.”
Emily woke while I was speaking.
Her first question was whether Ethan knew where we were going.
I had arranged for her to stay at a secure apartment used by a nonprofit organization for survivors of domestic violence.
The address was confidential.
Only Detective Monroe, the coordinator, and I knew the location.
Before leaving the hospital, a forensic nurse photographed Emily’s injuries again.
She documented bruising around both wrists, swelling on her left cheek, and a deep mark across her shoulder.
The physician believed the shoulder injury came from someone pulling her backward by her dress.
Emily quietly confirmed that Brandon had dragged her across the guest house floor.
The nurse sealed Emily’s torn clothing in an evidence bag.
As we walked toward the private exit, a hospital employee approached us.
She wore a housekeeping uniform and kept glancing behind her.
“Mrs. Hart?”
Emily stopped.
The woman pressed a folded note into her hand.
“I work part-time at the Prescott estate.”
Her voice shook.
“They know where you are going.”
Before I could question her, she hurried away.
I opened the note.
DO NOT USE THE BLUE VEHICLE.
I looked through the exit window.
A blue SUV waited beside the curb.
It belonged to the survivor assistance organization.
Detective Monroe immediately ordered everyone back inside.
A bomb technician inspected the vehicle.
There was no explosive.
Instead, he found a small magnetic tracking device attached beneath the rear bumper.
Someone had installed it less than an hour earlier.
The organization had not publicly identified the vehicle.
That meant the Prescotts had a source inside the hospital or inside the police department.
Captain Wallace ordered an internal investigation.
We left in an unmarked police car through the loading dock.
Emily sat low in the back seat.
She held my hand the entire drive.
At the safe apartment, she finally slept without medication.
I remained by the window.
Across the street, cars moved through the morning traffic.
At 9:03, a black sedan passed the building.
At 9:11, it passed again.
At 9:19, it parked half a block away.
I photographed the license plate and sent it to Detective Monroe.
The registration came back to Prescott Strategic Consulting.
Emily was being followed.
I closed the curtains.
My phone rang.
The caller had blocked the number.
When I answered, a distorted voice spoke.
“Colonel Hart, return the recordings.”
“No.”
“Then your daughter’s private videos will be released.”
The call ended.
Emily stood in the bedroom doorway.
Her face told me she had heard everything.
“What private videos?”
She looked down.
“There was a camera in the guest house.”
My stomach tightened.
“I thought it was only recording the room.”
Her voice broke.
“Mom, what if they recorded me changing?”
I crossed the room and held her.
“They are trying to make you ashamed of what they did.”
“What if they release it?”
“Then the crime belongs to them.”
She shook her head.
“You do not understand.”
“I understand exactly.”
My phone rang again.
This time it was Detective Monroe.
“The license plate you sent belongs to Brandon Prescott.”
“Is he still outside?”
I looked through a narrow opening in the curtain.
The black sedan was empty.
May you like
Then I heard a sound behind me.
The apartment’s rear door handle slowly began to turn.
