Chapter 8 - THE FALL OF RICHARD VANCERichard’s face drained of all color. He lunged toward the console, trying to disconnect the cables, but the federal marshals intercepted him instantly, pinning his arms behind his back and slapping steel handcuffs around his wrists.
"You can't prove anything!" Richard shrieked, struggling against the officers as cameras flashed furiously from every angle. "It's a conspiracy! Mitchell fabricated these documents!"
"The DNA doesn't lie, Richard," a frail, trembling voice echoed from the side entrance of the auditorium.
The crowd parted. Wheoled in a high-tech motorized chair, supported by private medical staff, was Arthur Sterling himself. The aging patriarch looked older, thinner, and haunted by grief—until he looked up and saw the tablet screen displaying the face of his long-lost granddaughter.
"My... my granddaughter?" Arthur whispered, tears spilling over his weathered cheeks. "Is she... is she alive?"
I pulled my phone from my pocket, unlocked the secure live video feed connected to my penthouse security cameras, and turned the screen toward the old man.
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There was Lily, sitting on the living room sofa, eating a bowl of cereal and watching cartoons.
Arthur’s hands trembled violently as he stared at the screen. He looked up at me, his eyes filled with a gratitude so deep it transcended words. "Bring her home, Mr. Mitchell," he choked out. "Please... bring my little girl home."
