The Bad Daughter

Max sipped on his blood-stained hibiscus tea, a strange comfort in the bitter tang that mirrored his current mood. His piercing grey eyes, flecked with hints of stormy blue, were glued to the phone resting on the mahogany table beside him. The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of a vintage lamp casting long shadows that seemed to flicker with his restless thoughts.

It had been two days since he left Vivian amidst her emotional turmoil.

Two days.

He had expected a call, a text—something. But no. There was nothing. The silence gnawed at him, amplifying his own words from that fateful conversation. 

"Always. Every time."

Who knew the statement meant to unsettle her would leave him tangled in his own web of mischief?

He leaned back, his lips curling into a sardonic smile. "What's the matter with me? So what if I wanted to make her uncomfortable? It's the truth. She always runs. Always." His words grew louder, a mutter turning into a half-angry exclamation. 

A soft, sleepy murmur broke through his thoughts. 

"Ae... sorry, sorry, love," he whispered, his tone instantly tender. 

The tiny figure on his lap stirred, her golden curls catching the dim light. His daughter rubbed her eyes with balled fists, her angelic face scrunching up. 

"Mama?" she murmured, her sleepy voice tugging at his heartstrings. 

Max froze, his breath hitching for a moment before she began to cry. Her little sobs turned into louder wails, piercing through the quiet room. 

"Shh, shh, no, no, my love, I'm sorry. Daddy didn't mean to wake you." He stood, cradling her small form as he began to pace, his strong arms swaying her gently. "There, there, little one. It's okay, shhh." 

Her cries softened, the rhythmic movement lulling her back to sleep. Max's shoulders sagged in relief as he laid her back in her bed, his fingers gently brushing her hair back from her tear-streaked cheeks. He crouched there for a moment, watching her serene face as she drifted into slumber once more. 

"Like mother, like daughter," he muttered to himself, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. Then, shaking his head, he stood, his expression hardening. "What are you waiting for, Vivian? What else do you want from me?" 

We need you more than you need us … or maybe we both need each other…

but I won't force you never… !!!

I will never call you again …

and then thinking something he murmured… atleast not the 1st to contact you… humph!

---

Detective Sarah Blake's phone buzzed in her pocket, but she ignored it. The tension in her chest was unbearable, a mixture of fury and resolve tightening around her ribs like a vice. 

"Where is he?" she snapped at one of the officers. 

"No sign of him yet, ma'am. But his car's still in the lot." 

It was the same lot where Sarah got her 1st suspect Vivian Donovan and now it was Sarah blake. What was eerie was that it was the lot in the building where Laura smith lived, making her a strong connection.

She clenched her jaw, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. Her husband, John Blake, had been avoiding her calls for days. Now, her suspicions were no longer whispers in the dark; they were roaring truths demanding action. 

After a while. John blake came out. It seemed he didn't know what was about to happen to him. He came rotating his car keys in his fingers, his tailored suit crisp and his tie perfectly knotted—a man who appeared untouched by guilt. He walked with calm confidence toward his car, his polished shoes echoing against the cold concrete as if he had no malice whatsoever and was not guilty of his wrongdoers. All of this made Sarah boil and without hesitation, she gave the order. "Surround him. Now." 

The team mobilized with precision, their unmarked cars creeping into position. The parking lot, dimly lit by a single flickering lamp, became a stage for confrontation. 

Before he could reach the driver's seat, the cars surged forward, engines growling as they boxed him in. John froze, his hand gripping his briefcase tightly. 

Sarah stepped out of her car, her dark trench coat billowing behind her. The cold night air made her breath visible, but her eyes burned with cold fury. 

"John Blake," she called, her voice cutting through the silence. "You are under arrest as a suspect in the recent serial killings." 

John turned slowly, his face calm but his eyes betraying a flicker of something—sadness, maybe? Or was it defiance? 

"Sarah," he said, taking a step forward. 

Sarah mirrored his movement, one hand gripping the cuffs in her coat pocket, the other resting on the pistol at her hip. She advanced with deliberate, measured steps until they stood mere feet apart. 

"You have the right to remain silent," she began, her voice steady. "You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law." 

Her hands moved with practiced precision that she needed today more than ever today to cuff her own husband, snapping the cuffs onto his wrists. His gaze never left hers. 

When she finished, he spoke, his voice low and calm. "But you won't believe me, will you? No matter what I say." 

For a moment, Sarah's composure faltered. She looked at him. There was no anger in his tone, no defensiveness. Just resignation. 

"Get him in the car," she ordered, her voice colder than the night air. 

As they led him away, John glanced back at her. 

Her jaw tightened, but she didn't reply. She watched as the car doors slammed shut, her husband now a prisoner of her investigation. 

Turning away, she clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms. If he was guilty, she would make sure he paid. But if he wasn't... 

No. She couldn't think like that. Not now. When everything was going on track.