Chapter 8 - The Breach at the Penthouse: When Bernice Uses the Master Override Code
“Savannah!” I shouted into the phone, slamming my laptop shut, ripping the flash drive from the port, and sprinting toward the door of the study.
“Lock the bedroom door right now! My mother is at the penthouse!”
“I hear the keypad!” Savannah’s voice came back through the speaker, high-pitched and vibrating with terror.
“She’s punching in the master override sequence! The deadbolts are sliding—Christopher, she’s coming in!”
“Don’t go near the hallway!” I yelled, bursting out of my father’s study and sprinting across the foyer toward the front door of the suburban house.
“Call the police! Tell them there’s an active home invasion and restraining order violation at our address! I’m on my way back right now!”
I threw myself into my car, slammed the door, and tore out of the gravel driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust as I fishtailed onto the suburban highway.
My speedometer climbed past eighty, ninety, a hundred miles per hour as I wove dangerously through afternoon traffic, one hand gripping the steering wheel while the other frantically dialed our private security dispatch.
“This is Christopher Vance,” I barked into the phone as the operator picked up.
“My mother, Bernice Vance, is currently breaking into my primary residence at the downtown penthouse using a stolen master override code. I want an immediate lockdown and dispatch local units right now. My pregnant wife is inside alone!”
“Sir, we have units en route,” the dispatcher replied calmly, typing furiously on the other end.
“Stay on the line. Are you certain she has a master code?”
“She’s my mother! She had access to the master administration keys from when the building was first developed!”
I hit the gas harder, my tires screaming against the asphalt as I took the downtown exit ramp on two wheels.
The penthouse was only twenty minutes away, but twenty minutes might as well have been a lifetime if Bernice managed to breach the master bedroom before security arrived.
What would she do when she found Savannah locked inside?
Would she try to force her way in?
Would she physically harm her again—this time with no witnesses, no hesitation, and nothing left to lose?
My hands shook so violently on the steering wheel I could barely keep the car centered in its lane.
If anything happened to Savannah—if anything happened to my unborn daughter—I knew with absolute, terrifying certainty that I would tear Bernice apart with my bare hands.
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The blood rushing through my ears drowned out the sirens wailing in the distance, but I didn't care about the cops, the traffic tickets, or the law anymore.
I only cared about getting home before it was too late.
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