Eleven Forty-Six P.M.
At exactly 11:46, I filmed Wyatt stating his full legal name, the date, and the identities of his captors on camera — and in the same frame, the ankle chain, his mangled knee, a roll of plastic sheeting, a shovel, and a bag of quicklime lined up against the wall.
“Dad — don’t go out the front,” Wyatt whispered. “Irving keeps a loaded shotgun by the hall. And Sabrina’s cousin is an active officer on the local police force.”
I got out through the side garage door. Irving spotted me from a window, fired a warning shot into the air, and chased my pickup in Wyatt’s SUV — until he lost control on a slick curve and crashed into a stone planter box.
I drove straight to a gas station, locked the doors, and called Arthur Montgomery, our chief legal counsel.
“Activate the corporate fraud protocol immediately,” I told him. “Cancel every executive card. Revoke every power of attorney. Call the State Attorney General’s office — tell them there’s a hostage inside a residence, drugged and injured, and that local police may be compromised.”
My second call went to Samuel, our head of corporate security. “Do not enter. Do not engage anyone. Just hold a perimeter and wait for state investigators.”
By 11:58, state cruisers filled Chestnut Hill Avenue. Guests upstairs shouted “Happy New Year!” while blue lights lit up the entire front of the house. Just before troopers forced the basement door open, Sabrina came running into the hall — holding a signed piece of paper.
