Chapter 6 - The Digital Confession
Megan froze, the kitchen knife trembling in her sweaty grip.
"He was attacking me!" she screamed, pointing the blade at her husband.
"I was just defending myself!"
The lead officer did not lower his weapon.
"Drop the knife now, or we will open fire!" he commanded, his voice echoing through the ruined living room.
Megan let the knife clatter to the hardwood floor and raised her hands, bursting into fake, hysterical sobs.
Two officers slammed her against the wall, reading her her rights for the second time that night.
Chris ignored them all, staring intently at his phone screen.
The little blue bar flashed green.
"Download complete," the phone chimed softly.
Without hesitating, Chris hit the forward button and sent the file directly to the police detective in charge of the case.
He also sent a copy to my phone.
Back in the hospital lobby, my phone buzzed violently in my pocket.
I pulled it out, my hands shaking as I tapped the video attachment from Chris.
Sarah and my father crowded around me, staring at the small, glowing screen.
The video was crystal clear, capturing the dark, damp basement in stark high definition.
On the screen, my sweet eight-year-old boy was curled on the concrete floor, clutching his stomach and crying.
"Please, Aunt Megan, it hurts so bad," Ethan's tiny voice pleaded through the speaker.
"I want my dad."
Megan stepped into the frame, holding a red plastic cup.
She looked perfectly calm, perfectly annoyed.
"Stop whining, Ethan, you're giving me a headache," she snapped on the video.
"Drink this juice."
"It's medicine that will make you sleep so you stop ruining Matthew's party."
Ethan shook his head, pushing the cup away.
"I don't want to sleep, I want to go to the hospital," he cried.
Megan grabbed his hair roughly, pulling his head back.
Sarah let out a choked sob in the lobby, turning her face away from the screen.
On the video, Megan forced the cup to Ethan's lips and poured the heavy sedative down his throat.
"Now shut up and go to sleep," Megan snarled, throwing the empty cup on the floor.
She walked up the stairs, slammed the heavy wooden door, and turned the deadbolt lock.
The video ended.
I looked up just as Ms. Higgins, the CPS worker, walked back into the lobby.
She looked entirely deflated, her stern demeanor completely gone.
"I just saw the footage," Ms. Higgins said softly, her voice filled with deep regret.
"I am so incredibly sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Davis."
"The emergency hold has been immediately lifted."
"You have full access to your son."
I didn't wait to hear another word; I sprinted past her, flying up the stairs to the ICU.
I burst through the doors, finally able to rush to my son's bedside.
I grabbed his tiny, cold hand, pressing it to my forehead as I cried freely.
But my relief lasted exactly five seconds.
The machines surrounding his bed suddenly blared a terrifying, continuous siren.
Dr. Evans rushed in, looking at the monitors with absolute dread.
"The toxins have reached his liver," the doctor yelled over the noise.
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"He's going into multi-organ failure."
"If we don't do a partial liver transplant in the next three hours, he is going to die."
