Chapter 4

The police arrived in under ten minutes. Two uniformed officers, a man and a woman, walked into a living room thick with tension.

Wesley was pale and sweating. Debra was still on the floor, her fake sobs replaced by a stunned, horrified silence. Barney just stood there, looking helpless.

Captain Roberts, to his credit, was a rock. He gave a calm, factual statement.

"I came to drop off some insurance forms for Mrs. Chadwick," he told the officers. "As I approached the door, I saw Mr. Wesley Chadwick strike her across the face."

The female officer turned to me. "Ma'am, do you want to press charges?"

"Yes," I said without hesitation. "I do."

Debra scrambled to her feet. "No! It was a misunderstanding! A family squabble! Gabrielle, tell them!"

I looked at her, my cheek throbbing. "He hit me, Debra. In front of my daughter. In front of a Fire Captain. There is no misunderstanding."

Wesley was cuffed. The metallic click echoed in the silent room. As they led him out, he looked at me, his eyes pleading. "Gabrielle, please. It'll ruin me."

"You should have thought of that before you raised your hand to me," I said coldly.

The fallout was immediate and catastrophic for him. Wesley had a part-time job with the city's parks department-a menial but stable position they had pulled strings to get him. An assault charge, especially with a witness as credible as Captain Roberts, was a death sentence for that job.

I didn't even have to do anything. The police report, a public record, made its way to his supervisor. Two days later, a letter arrived: Wesley Chadwick was terminated for conduct unbecoming of a public employee.

But I wasn't done. The apology had to be as public as the offense.

I had Captain Roberts leak the story to the local paper's gossip columnist. Not the assault itself, but the "resolution."

A week after the incident, Wesley, his face a mixture of shame and fury, knelt on the front porch. Not inside the house, but outside, where Mrs. Henderson from next door could see him while watering her petunias.

"I am sorry, Gabrielle," he mumbled, his eyes fixed on the wooden planks.

"I can't hear you," I said, standing in the doorway with my arms crossed.

He looked up, his jaw tight. "I am sorry," he said, louder this time. "For hitting you. It was wrong. I will never do it again."

"And?" I prompted.

He gritted his teeth. "And I apologize for trying to steal your money for my... for my business idea."

"Good," I said. I didn't tell him I forgave him. I didn't offer a single word of comfort. I just turned and closed the door in his face, leaving him kneeling on the porch for the whole neighborhood to see.

The first strike was a success. Wesley was jobless, humiliated, and his reputation in our small town was in tatters. The lifestyle brand was dead before it even began.

The Chadwicks were reeling, but they were still a long way from broken. And I knew exactly who my next target was.