The rain lashed against the windshield, blurring the coastal road into a smear of dark greens and grays. The wind howled, pushing my old station wagon around every curve. My hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white.
Eleanor’s estate loomed ahead, a fortress of iron gates and towering stone pillars. Its ten acres stretched towards the churning tidal marsh.
As I slowed, my headlights cut through the deluge, revealing the formidable gates. I was about to turn in when two sets of flashing red and blue lights erupted behind me.
Two county sheriff cruisers.
They boxed me in, one behind, one angled to block my escape. Deputy Miller, a man I’d known for years, stepped out of the lead cruiser, his face grim under the brim of his rain-soaked hat.
He walked to my driver’s side window. His expression was stony.
“Mr. Croft,” he shouted over the wind. “Please step out of the vehicle.”
“Deputy Miller, what is this? I need to get to my grandson.” My voice was tight, frayed.
“Eleanor Halloway called us,” he said, his eyes scanning my face. “Said you were distraught, potentially violent.”
“That’s a lie! She’s trying to stop me from saving Toby!” I yelled, fumbling with the car door handle.
Miller opened my door. “Sir, you need to calm down. You’re under an emergency elder-protective hold, effective immediately.”
He pulled my hands behind my back, the cold steel of the handcuffs clicking into place. My old body protested, a jolt of pain shooting up my arms.
“What? An elder-protective hold? That’s not possible!”
“Dennis Park filed an emergency petition, Mr. Croft,” Miller stated, his voice flat. “Based on altered appraisal photos of your home showing hoarding and unsafe conditions. He claimed you were an immediate danger to yourself.”
My blood ran cold. Dennis Park. The corrupt notary. Eleanor’s puppet. This wasn’t just Eleanor’s call; it was a systemic setup.
They pushed me into the back of the cruiser. Through the rain-streaked rear window, I saw her. Eleanor. She stood on her illuminated porch, a silk robe wrapped around her, her figure a dark silhouette against the warm glow of the house.
She watched, her posture straight, her face unreadable.
Then, a flicker of movement in an upstairs window. Toby. His face was a mask of despair, pressed against the glass. Our eyes met across the rain-swept distance. He shook his head, a silent, desperate plea.
My heart cratered. He saw me, handcuffed, helpless. He saw me fail.
The cruiser turned, pulling away from the estate, leaving Toby to his fate.
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