The Scapegoat Heir: Rise of Nathaniel Sinclair

Chapter Two

Chapter 2: The Sacrifice

Marcus grabbed Nate's arms from behind and pinned them against his back, and Nate tried to twist free but Marcus was too strong, and the whiskey was already burning a path down his throat from the first glass Harold had forced past his lips. 

Harold tilted the crystal glass against Nate's mouth again, his movements clinical and detached, and the amber liquid poured in, and Nate choked and sputtered, trying to spit it out, but Harold's hand clamped over his jaw and held his mouth shut until he had no choice but to swallow or drown. "Drink it all," Harold said, his voice calm and steady, like he was instructing a child to take bitter medicine. "Every last drop. We need you to look like you have been drinking for hours."

Nate's eyes watered and his throat burned and his stomach churned with the sudden influx of alcohol, but Marcus held him fast and Harold kept pouring, glass after glass, until Nate's head was spinning and his vision was blurring and the room swayed around him like a ship in a storm. He tried to speak, tried to form words, but the sounds that came out were slurred and unintelligible, barely human. "Please," he managed to choke out, the word broken and pathetic. "Please stop. I can't. I can't take any more."

"Just a little more," Harold said, and he poured another glass, his hand steady, his eyes cold. "We need you barely conscious. We need the police to see a drunk, remorseful killer, not a sober man who is being framed by his own family."

Preston stood by the fireplace, his arms crossed, his face dry of tears now, and he watched the scene unfold with an expression that was almost clinical, like he was observing an experiment rather than participating in the destruction of another human being. He did not speak, he did not move to help, he did not show even a flicker of hesitation or guilt, and Nate looked at him through the fog of alcohol and saw the relief in his eyes, the relief of a man who had just been handed an escape route and was too grateful to care about the cost.

Marcus shifted his grip, one hand moving to Nate's hair and pulling his head back, exposing his throat, and Harold tilted the glass again, the whiskey pouring in a steady stream that Nate could not stop, could not avoid, could only swallow and choke and swallow again until his lungs burned and his stomach heaved and he thought he might vomit right there on the marble floor. "Good," Marcus said, his voice low and satisfied. "He's almost there. Look at his eyes. He can barely focus."

Nate's knees buckled and he sagged against Marcus, his body heavy and uncooperative, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a windstorm, and he could feel himself losing control, feel the edges of his consciousness fraying as the alcohol flooded his system and drowned every coherent thought. He heard voices around him, distant and muffled, like they were speaking from the other end of a long tunnel, and he heard Margaret's voice, calm and composed, and he heard footsteps, and he heard the front door opening, and then he heard new voices, firm and authoritative, and he knew they had arrived.

"Officers, thank you for coming so quickly." Margaret's voice was warm and welcoming, the same voice she used at her dinner parties and charity events, the voice of a gracious hostess who had nothing to hide. "We called as soon as we could. My husband and I are simply beside ourselves with shock. We never expected this from Nathaniel, never in a million years."

Nate tried to lift his head, tried to focus his eyes on the uniformed figures who had just entered the room, but his vision swam and his head throbbed and all he could see were blurry shapes moving toward him. The officers approached slowly, their faces professional and detached, and one of them crouched down to look at Nate's face, to smell the whiskey on his breath, and Nate opened his mouth to speak, to tell them the truth, to explain that he had been forced to drink, that he had not done anything wrong, but all that came out was a slurred mumble that made no sense even to his own ears.

"He's clearly intoxicated," the officer said, standing up and shaking his head. "And your wife tells us he confessed to the hit-and-run. Said he was driving drunk and panicked and drove away from the scene."

Harold nodded solemnly, his face the picture of a grieving father who had just discovered his adopted son was a monster. "That's exactly what happened, officer. He stumbled in here hours ago, reeking of alcohol, sobbing uncontrollably, and he confessed everything to us. He told us he hit a man and drove away. He begged us to help him, to hide him, to protect him from the consequences, but we knew we couldn't do that. We had to do the right thing. We had to call you."

Nate shook his head weakly, his tongue heavy and useless in his mouth, and he tried to form the words, tried to push the truth out through the fog that had settled over his brain, but the sounds that emerged were garbled and pathetic, nothing more than a drunk man's incoherent mumbling. The second officer stepped forward and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, the metal glinting under the chandelier light, and Nate watched them approach and felt his heart plummet into his stomach.

"Please," he tried to say, but the word came out wrong, broken and swallowed. "Please, I didn't..."

"Nathaniel Ashford," the first officer said, his voice flat and official. "You are under arrest for the hit-and-run death of Daniel Hayes. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you."