Chapter 7 - The Final InfernoThe Vance mansion was burning.
The state troopers rushed us back to the scene in an armored SUV. By the time we arrived, the sky was completely dark with thick, toxic plumes of smoke. Fire trucks were spraying water onto the roaring inferno, but the blaze was too intense—the historic mansion was being completely consumed by fire.
"What happened?!" I yelled at a state trooper overseeing the perimeter.
"Victoria Vance," the officer replied over the roar of the flames. "When the news broadcast went live, federal marshals issued an emergency arrest warrant. When the local police arrived at the gate, Victoria locked herself in the study, doused the interior with gasoline, and set it ablaze."
I gasped, looking at the massive flames leaping from the roof.
"What about Trevor?" Brooke asked, her voice tight.
"He tried to escape through the back woods," the officer said, pointing toward a parked police cruiser. "We caught him five minutes ago."
Through the barred window of the police cruiser, I saw Trevor Vance.
His clothes were torn, his face covered in soot and mud. He was sobbing uncontrollably, his hands cuffed tightly behind his back. The arrogant, wealthy monster who had beaten my daughter with a golf club was now reduced to a weeping, broken wreck.
As I approached the car, Trevor looked up at me through the glass. His eyes were wide with pathetic desperation.
"Elena... please!" Trevor sobbed, hammering his cuffed hands against the window. "Tell them I didn't want to hurt her! It was my mother! Victoria made me do it! She said she would cut me off! Please, Brooke, tell them I love you!"
Brooke walked up beside me. She didn't rage. She didn't scream. She simply looked down at him through the glass with total, absolute indifference.
"I loved a man who didn't exist, Trevor," Brooke said, her voice clear and ringing over the sound of the crackling fire behind us. "Enjoy the rest of your life in a cold, concrete cell."
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the front of the mansion.
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The heavy roof of the east wing collapsed inward, sending a massive geyser of red sparks into the dark morning sky. Victoria Vance’s secrets, her stolen fortune, her fake royalty, and her life were all consumed by the very element I had held in my hand on her porch three days ago.
Poetic justice had finally collected its debt.
