“David Miller,” my father’s voice boomed, filling the kitchen. It echoed off the marble counters and the stainless steel appliances, a gavel strike in a sterile room. “You will call an ambulance. You will do it now. If my daughter or my grandchild suffers further harm because of your delay, I will personally ensure that you are disbarred, investigated for assault, and that every favor you think you’re owed from every golf buddy you’ve ever had evaporates. You have sixty seconds.”
David stared at the phone in my hand as if it had turned into a snake. The smugness was gone, replaced by a flicker of unease. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he blustered. “You can’t threaten me. I know the law.”
“You know a law,” my father corrected, his voice icy. “I wrote the book on constitutional law that you probably skimmed in law school. I am Chief Justice Harrison Thorne. And you just assaulted my daughter. Fifty seconds.”
The color drained from David’s face so fast it was like watching a tide go out. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. His eyes, wide with disbelief and dawning horror, darted from me to the phone and back again. The man who had played golf with the Sheriff, who had bragged about his connections, suddenly looked very small in his own designer kitchen.
Sylvia, who had been hovering in the doorway, let out a choked gasp. “The Chief Justice? But she’s... she’s a cook! She has no one! She told us she was an orphan!”
I looked at her, my mother-in-law, who had for three years treated me like a live-in servant. I saw the fear finally register in her eyes. “My parents died when I was a child,” I said, my voice flat. “I was raised by my grandparents. Harrison Thorne is my grandfather. He adopted me when I was twelve.”
David finally snapped out of his stupor. He scrambled for his own phone, his hands fumbling. “An ambulance! I need an ambulance!” he shouted into it, his voice high and reedy.
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