Erica Sinclair - Family Ties (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much for your praise. I hope, you'll find time this holiday weekend to catch up on your reading. The plot has thickened and I guarantee that there's more to come.

[LunaDog]

Yes, i'd agree about your superb complimentary pictures. Bring even more life to the already magnificent tales.

As to this one, it rather appears that Erica is here to stay.

[Caesar73]

Yes, i'd agree about your superb complimentary pictures. Bring even more life to the already magnificent tales.

As to this one, it rather appears that Erica is here to stay.

I agree totally!

[Caesar73]

I managed to do some catching up I like the Conversation Erica has with Steve very much. At a different Time Steve could have been the Man for Erica. But Erica wasn´t ready at the Time for such a Commitment. We can tell from the Dialogue that Erica trusts him fully.

That Line I like very much:

"A beat, then a chuckle that wraps around her like an old sweatshirt."

The Comparison works very well

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, you are right: Erica has made up her mind. Despite the glory of the big city, she has never stopped being a smalltown girl. She's coming back to Scarsdale. Well, after the house is done, of course.

[Jenny_S]

The drive back down to Scarsdale is quiet, the Volvo cocooning her in solitude. She doesn’t turn on music. She lets the silence breathe.

Instead of pulling up front, she turns toward the back lane and coasts into the garage, the same old concrete slab where so many memories live.
The door creaks as it slides closed, and the sound pulls her back, eight years old again, standing beside her father as he taught her how to punch - body coiled, fists up, elbows tucked in.

This is where her father had hung an old leather sandbag from the steel rafter, when she came home after Tommy Shoemaker and his gang had roughed her up to take revenge for her standing up for Andrea Santos, the new girl at school.
Instead of calling Tommy’s father or the principal, he had taught her to defend herself, telling her that if someone ever would put their hands on her - unwanted - she should defend herself with everything she had, without holding back. “Fight like the third lioness on Noah's Ark as it’s starting to rain,” he had said. Now these words seem to echo in the garage’s quiet.
Later, when she was thirteen, he had taught her how to shoot a gun. This was going to be the final option for her if things went South in a major way.

She crosses the backyard slowly, stepping inside, snapping photos as she goes - hallway, kitchen, pantry, each room a page in the book of her life. The house, a hushed museum of her childhood.
Her old room feels like a ghost of a dream, silent and still, full of paperback novels with dog-eared corners, a worn denim jacket still draped over the desk chair.
The light outside is fading now.
Blue hour.
That haunting in-between when everything seems softer and sadder.

Finally, she descends the stairs to the ground floor again, walking into her father’s study.
The air is still, thick with dust and memory.
She sinks into the leather armchair, the familiar give of the cushions welcoming her, her body folding into it like it’s always belonged there.
She looks at her wrist and touches the Rolex.
Stand for something or fall for anything.

Looking back, she realizes that her father had known all along that he would not always be around to protect her.
So, he had put all the love he had for her into equipping her with everything she would require to face any conceivable adversity - be it in her professional life as a lawyer in her quest for justice or for herself as a person - as Erica.

Outside, the backyard is a silhouette against the orange-pink sky.
Wild.
Overgrown. But not beyond saving.

“God, I miss you so much, Mom. Dad...” Her voice, raw and thin, is barely above a whisper.
The words hang in the room like smoke, choking her with unspoken grief.
She leans back, fingers still on the watch.
The sun dips below the tree line.
Shadows creep along the floor.
And then - peace, for just a moment.
She doesn’t realize she’s drifting off until her head tilts to the side, breath steady, eyes fluttering closed.

The house is quiet.
Too quiet.

~~~

[LunaDog]

I take it that is a 'young' Erica in your latest picture, with her dad in the background. This 'adventure' is stirring so many memories for her.

I'd also like to echo the sentiments expressed here about how the gentleman named 'Steve' is just such a person. Clearly trustworthy, as @Caesar73 has commented, in different circumstances .....

Totally unlike the scumbag of the same name, who acted so disgusting in your superb story featuring Claire's niece.

[Caesar73]

This says a lot:

“God, I miss you so much, Mom. Dad...” Her voice, raw and thin, is barely above a whisper.
The words hang in the room like smoke, choking her with unspoken grief.
She leans back, fingers still on the watch.
The sun dips below the tree line.
Shadows creep along the floor.
And then - peace, for just a moment.
She doesn’t realize she’s drifting off until her head tilts to the side, breath steady, eyes fluttering closed."

Wonderful. Short precise Sentences. Capturing the Atmosphere of the Moment.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, you're right. In this image, we see a young Erica and - for the first time - although only in the back, her father.
I highly enjoy presenting you these flashback scenes, and I just had to picture this particular one.

Steve McKinley is a truly nice guy introduced first in "Erica Sinclair - Sea Dream". Erica's therapist had recommended she'd take some time for herself after she got shot by Tony Maze and during the cruise she ran into Steve. He was looking for a woman, enjoyed Erica's company, but had to accept that she wasn't ready for a new relationship. However, in that story he also met Antonia, and now we learn where that got him.

[Jenny_S]

Erica awakens in the dark, curled up in her father’s leather armchair, but it is not the darkness that jolts her awake, but sounds she shouldn’t hear in the house at this time.
Time?
She checks the luminous dial on her Rolex: 10:15 PM.
Could mice make this kind of a noise?
No, too heavy.
Raccoons maybe?
But that wasn’t a scuttling…

She stretches, stands, and listens again.
The sounds seem to be coming from the basement.
She sticks her head into the hallway and listens again.

A cold certainty settles in her gut: something is absolutely going on in the basement.
Stepping softly, she edges forward.
As she passes the front door, a phantom chill traces her spine as she catches a glimpse of a car parked outside by the curb - a white Camaro.

Right.
This is the car, her neighbor had mentioned when she and Claire met him the other day.
The guy who he thought would be her brother – supposedly Aunt Elisa’s nephew.

She listens again, now hearing a voice - a male voice - muttering something under his breath and she feels goosebumps form on her skin, and rage rising within her.
She has no idea who this guy might be or what he thinks his business is, but one thing is searingly clear: this is her home, and his presence is a violation she will not tolerate.

The basement steps whisper under her sneakers as Erica descends, each one taken with careful, silent precision.
The air down here is different - cooler, but thick with something sour and wrong.
Damp concrete, mold, dust... and something acrid, chemical, that prickles her nose.

~~~

[LunaDog]

Short & sweet. Just who is this 'brother?' And what does he want?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I promise we will find that out.

[Jenny_S]

She hears him before she sees him. Muffled shuffling. The sound of a zipper. The soft thud of something heavy being lowered to the ground.

Her pulse roars.
She rounds the corner at the bottom of the stairs - and there he is.

He’s crouched near the far wall, the same side of the basement where her father kept his tools and plastic bins with old military gear.
But now the workbench is cluttered with plastic-wrapped bricks, and beside them - an open sports bag.

The man - tall, wiry, wearing skinny jeans and a designer hoodie - turns toward her.
His pupils are dilated.
Sweat slicks his brow.
And for the briefest second, there's nothing but confusion on his face.
He thought he was alone in the house - but suddenly realizes he’s not.

Erica doesn’t hesitate. “Get the hell out of my house,” she rasps, her voice sharp as broken glass.

He steps toward her, hand twitching near his side.

A sneer on his face, he pulls a switchblade knife from his back pocket, flips it open.
The metallic click sounds unnaturally loud in the silence of the basement.

She backs up - slow, steady, controlled. “Put the knife down,” she says, voice surprisingly calm.
She’s been there before - threatened with a knife, a gun, even been shot.
Once by Tony Maze in the right shoulder, twice by rogue cop Jimmy Fallon. But for that occasion, she had been given a bulletproof vest to wear.

Today, she’s not wearing protection and she is alone with this man - in a bad spot.
A very bad spot.

He lunges.

She dodges left, his knife a cold whisper against her skin as it just misses her shoulder. She slams a knee into his side, but it is like hitting a brick wall.
He barely flinches.
He has to be high, too jacked up to feel the strike.

His hand clamps around her wrist like a vice.
They struggle - hard.
She breaks free, kicks, twists, elbows. He swings the knife and catches the hem of her softshell jacket, the fabric tearing with a rasp.
Stumbling backward, her feet scramble on the slick concrete floor.
He hits her in the ribs with a brutal blow that sucks the air from her lungs in a painful gasp.

Clearly, she has bitten off more than she can chew here.
She can’t fight him.
Erica bolts for the stairs.

He’s right behind her.

She takes them two steps at a time, gasping, slipping, catching herself.
A sharp pain sears through her as she scrapes her shin.

The guy grunts behind her, furious, wild. “I’ll skin you alive… bitch…”

~~~

[LunaDog]

Clearly, she has bitten off more than she can chew here.

An almost perfect summary of the situation here.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, tonight, we will find out if Erica can make an escape.

[Jenny_S]

She hits the landing on her knees, scrambles up, legs burning. Her heart hammering against her ribs like crazy, a frantic drumbeat urging her on as adrenaline spikes through her veins.

Swinging to the right, she races down the hallway, barreling into the study, slamming the door behind her. It bounces on its old hinges – not locking.
The true reason why her father always left it half open.

She pushes past the armchair and dives toward the rolltop desk, flinging it open - scrambling, searching - until her hand closes around a chunk of cold steel.
Her father’s .45.
The one he taught her to shoot with when she was thirteen.
The one that was never meant to be used - until this very moment - as her final option.
A wave of desperate relief washes over her.

The door crashes open behind her.
He staggers in, knife in hand, chest heaving.
There’s a cruel smirk on his face, a glint of murder in his eyes.
He’s got the woman backed into the corner of the room with nowhere to run now.

Erica forces herself to steady her breathing despite her pulse roaring in her ears.
She racks the slide of the gun, praying that there is ammunition in the magazine, praying that the gun will not malfunction after years of disuse.
She holds the pistol in both hands, brings the muzzle up just like her father had taught her.

“Aim the first round slightly low - just above the belt,” he had told her after she had learned not to fear the sound and the recoil of the shot. “Acquire the sight picture, then gently pull the trigger, Erica. Don’t jerk it, just give it a gentle squeeze. Your first round will hit him in the stomach, the recoil will raise the muzzle a little. Then you fire again and hit him in the chest. Two shots in quick succession, it’s called a double-tap.”


~~~


“Stop. Right. There,” she commands, her back to the desk, feet firmly planted and slightly bladed, her voice a thin line of control although she can feel her heart hammering in her throat.

He pauses.
Just for a second.
His eyes flick to the gun - and he grins, a smug, chilling expression.
“You ain’t gonna shoot me, babe.”
He takes another step toward her, the knife ready to strike. “Time to die, bitch…”
Blade gleaming in the low light, he charges, a blur of cruel intent.

“Erica, the gun is meant to be your final option. When everything else has failed and when your life is at stake. Don’t hesitate. It’s better to be judged by twelve than to be carried by six.”
Those were her father’s words.

She doesn’t hesitate.
Two shots break in quick succession.
She feels the recoil in her arms.
It’s a deafening noise as if a cannon is going off in the confines of the study - her father’s sanctuary.

The intruder doesn’t just stop dead in his tracks, he’s literally thrown back like being hit by an invisible fist, the carpet being jerked away from under his feet.
He hits the floorboards with a dull thud, collapsing instantly like a half-empty sack of potatoes. Screaming.
Then groaning.
Two bullet holes bloom in his torso, one slightly above the navel, one in his chest - blood soaking his expensive hoodie.

Her ears ringing from the noise of the shots, gun still pointed at him, Erica stares at him for a beat.
Then she slowly walks around him, not taking her eyes off him, ready to fire again.
Holding the .45 in one hand now, she fumbles for her phone, dialing 911.

“911. What is your emergency?” the voice of the dispatcher comes through the speaker.

“This is Erica Sinclair, 12 Taunton Road,” she says. “I need the police and an ambulance. A man broke into my house and attacked me with a knife.”

“Are you still in danger?”

“No. I shot him.”
Her voice is surprisingly even and eerily calm.
Of course, the call is being recorded. She knows the protocol well enough.

~~~

[LunaDog]

I think to be utterly fair this was very much a case of 'shoot or be shot!' ( OK to be more accurate it was a case of 'or be stabbed.' )

Erica didn't provoke or ask for this situation, nobody can refute it wasn't self-defence, or necessary. This criminal intended her VERY serious harm, if not to the ultimate degree.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, like her father said: it's better to be judged by twelve than to be carried by six.

[Caesar73]

You didn´t disappoint @Jenny_S That was quite the Action Chapter.

“You ain’t gonna shoot me, babe.”

The Guy was wrong.

Erica did shoot.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much.
Maybe Africa has hardened Erica in a variety of ways.

[Jenny_S]

Red and blue strobes bathe the front of the house in an uneasy pulse, a jarring rhythm that mirrors the one still thrumming beneath Erica's ribs.

Erica stands just inside the doorway, backlit by the shattered light of the study, arms limp at her sides. The gun is long gone - bagged and tagged by the police, along with two spent brass casings and her attacker’s switchblade knife, all now sterile evidence in a pouch.

Outside, tires crunch against gravel.
The low growl of the ambulance fades into place behind the Scarsdale PD cruiser.
A paramedic team works without fanfare, wheeling out the man she shot - Julio Ramos - his torso swathed in gauze, his face slack and pale, lips parted as if about to speak but already unconscious.

One of the officers, a young guy with an almost gentle look in his eyes, jots notes on a pad as Erica talks.
There’s no need for her to remain silent.
Her voice is steady, mechanical.
She walks him through the past days - Doctor Parker’s call, the mysterious “brother” her neighbor had sighted, Steve’s and Antonia’s visit.
Every detail clicks into place like puzzle pieces she hadn’t known she’d been assembling.

He nods slowly. “You’ll have to come with us to the station, ma’am.”

She doesn’t flinch. Just watches as the gurney disappears into the flashing chaos.
“You stitched him good,” the officer murmurs, not unkindly.

Erica’s eyes remain fixed on the dark doorway to the basement.
A faint, acrid tang of Cordite still lingers in the air.
“I guess, the reason he was here is in the basement.”

The second officer heads down into the shadows. Minutes later, he reappears with a duffel bag clutched in gloved hands. Even zipped, the shape of the contents betrays itself: bricks, squared off and wrapped in plastic. Unmistakably, cocaine.
“His prints should be all over this.” the cop says. “Let’s go.”

Erica turns without a word, crosses her wrists behind her back in a fluid, almost automatic motion. But the younger cop shakes his head.
“No need to slap you in handcuffs, ma’am,” he says. “This looks like self-defense to me. Still… the Captain will want you to stay at the station until a detective can verify your story.”

She gives a small shrug, her shoulder twinging where the knife had nicked her jacket. “I know the drill.”


~~~


The new station house is sleek steel and glass, a modern upgrade from the aging relic Erica remembers from her childhood. But the scent - burnt coffee and old paper - clings to the place like it does to any other police station she’s ever seen.

At the station, she signs in, hands over her bag, and follows the officers to a gray, soulless interview room.
Detective Pete Flaherty greets her with a tired smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He records her statement while she repeats the events again, this time with sharper detail.
Every word she speaks tightens the noose around Julio Ramos’s neck.

“This will have to go to the DA,” Flaherty says as he turns off the recorder. “You’ll probably be formally charged with aggravated assault. But given the circumstances…”

Erica nods. “Castle Doctrine,” she says flatly.

Flaherty raises an eyebrow. “That’s the idea. We’re verifying it all now. It might take a few hours.”

She’s bracing for an invitation to a holding cell when Flaherty adds, “I don’t think you’ll want to spend the night in a cell. The Captain’s gone home for the night, but there’s a couch in his office.”

Erica feels a slow release of tension in her shoulders and manages the faintest smile. “That’s very kind, Detective.”


~~~


The couch is worn and sunken, the leather cool against her back. Erica curls onto it, pulling her jacket over herself. Only now does she see the tear at the shoulder - the blade must’ve sliced clean through but didn’t cut into her.

She realizes how lucky she’s been tonight.
This could have ended in a really bad way for her.

Her breath catches, a gasp of cold, stark realization.
She could have died.
Right there in the basement of the house that’s supposed to be her new start.

She stares at the ceiling panels, unblinking, listening to the midnight rhythms of the precinct: the clacking of keyboards, the occasional ring of a phone, a burst of laughter from somewhere down the hall. It's oddly comforting - this humming machine of people doing their jobs, keeping the world turning.
Eventually, exhaustion claims her.

~~~

[LunaDog]

The Police seem to be very understanding here, as if they believe everything that Erica states. Nevertheless there are certain procedures that need to be observed, a man has been shot, however justifiably.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, absolutely, Erica is charged with aggravated assault and the police isn't just letting her go, even if they offer her a couch instead of a cell.
We'll see how this unfolds further.

[Caesar73]

Seems like the Police is sympathetic to Erica´s Case. That she was offered the Couch and not the Holding Cell tells us something. Erica stood her ground. And she knows the Rules of the Game. Erica is a Lawyer after all.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, we will see how this plays out. Things depend on the detective's investigations and the DA in White Plains.