Chapter 8 - THE SCARLET LIGHTER
"No!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat as Wyatt ripped the car door open.
Wyatt didn't want Harper because he loved her. He wanted her because she was his only leverage left—a human shield to guarantee his escape.
But he underestimated how fiercely a mother will fight.
Before Wyatt could even reach for Harper's car seat, I threw my entire body weight into him. I slammed into his side like a freight train, driving my shoulder directly into his ribs.
Wyatt grunted in pain, stumbling backward away from the open car door.
"Get away from her!" I roared, standing between him and my terrified daughter.
"Emma, move!" Wyatt snarled, his face twisted into an ugly, desperate snarl. The mask was completely gone, revealing the violent, selfish coward beneath. He lunged at me, grabbing my arms and trying to throw me aside.
"Let her go!" Sergeant Miller bellowed, drawing his taser and charging forward.
But Wyatt was operating on pure adrenaline and panic. He shoved me hard against the side of the car, my head bouncing off the window glass. Stars exploded in my vision, but I refused to fall. I kicked out, my boot connecting squarely with his kneecap.
Wyatt howled, buckling slightly.
Sergeant Miller tackled him from the side. The two men crashed onto the concrete driveway, grappling violently. Wyatt fought like a rabid dog, throwing wild punches, desperate to break free.
"I didn't want to do it!" Wyatt screamed, pinning the officer's arm and trying to scramble to his feet. "Nolan was going to ruin everything! We were fifty grand in the hole, and he was going to shut the site down! He was going to send us both to prison for fraud!"
He was confessing. Screaming his guilt into the humid Carolina air.
I stumbled forward, my vision clearing, and grabbed the heavy canvas tool bag I had brought from Hank’s trailer. I swung it with every ounce of strength I had left.
The heavy metal carabiner inside the bag collided directly with the side of Wyatt's head.
Wyatt groaned, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed heavily onto the concrete.
Sergeant Miller immediately rolled him onto his stomach, driving a knee into his back, and snapped a pair of heavy steel handcuffs around Wyatt’s wrists.
"Wyatt Cole, you are under arrest," Sergeant Miller panted, out of breath but thoroughly in control.
Wyatt groaned, pressing his bleeding face against the concrete. "It's her word against mine," he slurred, spitting blood onto the driveway. "The toll photo just proves I was in Savannah. It doesn't prove I pushed him."
"We have the audio recording of you bribing the inspector," I said, standing over him, my chest heaving. "And we have Nolan's carabiner. The one he scratched your initials into before he fell."
Wyatt froze. The fight completely drained out of him. He knew it was over.
But as the realization set in, a final, spiteful surge of venom took over. If he was going down, he was going to destroy the evidence.
Wyatt twisted his body violently, pulling his hands as far to the side as the handcuffs would allow. He dug into his front pocket and pulled out a heavy silver Zippo lighter.
With a flick of his thumb, he ignited the flame.
He didn't aim for me. He aimed for the hood of his truck.
He tossed the flaming lighter directly into the stacks of cash and the manila envelope containing Nolan's handwritten note.
The old, dry paper caught instantly. A burst of orange flame erupted on the hood of the truck, threatening to consume the very confession that proved Wyatt's motive.
"No!" I yelled, rushing forward.
But before I could even reach the truck, a sudden splash of cold water hit the hood.
The flames hissed and died instantly, leaving behind a soggy, charred mess of rubber bands and wet paper.
I stopped in my tracks.
Standing on the other side of the truck, holding a completely empty plastic watering can, was Harper.
She had unbuckled herself from the car seat, quietly slipped out the other door, grabbed the watering can from the front porch steps, and doused the fire.
She stood there in her pink flower-girl dress, looking at the wet money, then looking down at Wyatt on the ground.
"You don't get to burn Daddy's things," my five-year-old daughter said firmly.
Sergeant Miller let out a loud bark of disbelief, shaking his head. He hauled Wyatt roughly to his feet.
"I'd say your emergency custody order has been officially revoked, Mr. Cole," Sergeant Miller said, shoving Wyatt toward the back of the police cruiser.
I didn't watch him get put in the back of the car. I didn't care about Wyatt Cole anymore. He was a ghost, a bad memory that was finally being locked away.
I ran around the truck and dropped to my knees in front of Harper.
I pulled her into my arms, hugging her so tightly I thought my heart might burst. She wrapped her small arms around my neck, burying her face in my shoulder.
"You were so brave, baby," I cried, kissing her blonde hair. "You saved Daddy's note. You saved everything."
"Is Wyatt going to go away like Daddy?" Harper asked softly into my ear.
May you like
"Yes," I whispered, holding her tight. "But Daddy went away because he was a hero. Wyatt is going away because he's a bad man. And he is never, ever coming back."
For the first time in two years, the heavy, suffocating weight of grief lifted off my chest. The truth was out. The air finally felt clean to breathe.
