Chapter 2: The Stolen Truth
The sterile smell of the ER was suffocating.
I sat in a plastic chair in Room 4, holding Sophie’s sleeping hand. It took nine stitches to close the wound on her head. The doctors diagnosed her with a severe concussion and kept her for overnight observation.
Every time she shifted in her sleep, she whimpered. And every time she whimpered, the burning rage in my chest grew hotter.
A sharp knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. It was Detective Miller, a tired-looking man in a rumpled suit holding a notepad.
"Mrs. Hayes, how is your daughter?" he asked quietly, stepping into the room.
"She’s sedated," I replied, my voice raspy from crying. "Did you arrest him? Did you pull the footage from the Whitmore?"
Detective Miller sighed, shifting his weight. He didn't look me in the eye. That was my first warning.
"We went to the hotel's security office immediately, ma'am. I spoke with the general manager myself."
"And?" I demanded.
"And," Miller hesitated, "the manager informed us that the camera in the main ballroom has been down for maintenance since Tuesday. There is no footage of the incident."
The room spun. My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.
"What?" I stood up, accidentally knocking my chair backward. "No! That's a lie! I saw the red light blinking! It was recording!"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hayes. The manager provided the maintenance logs. And unfortunately, without video proof, this is a he-said, she-said situation. Your parents, the bride, and several guests closest to the altercation have all given official statements claiming Sophie tripped and pulled the sign down on herself."
"They're lying!" I screamed, though I kept my voice low so I wouldn't wake Sophie. "My father is a major investor in the Whitmore Hotel! He bought the manager off! He paid them to delete the footage!"
"Unless you can prove that, my hands are tied," Detective Miller said gently. "Your brother isn't being charged. I'm sorry."
He left his card on the side table and walked out.
I sank to the floor, my back against the cold hospital wall, and buried my face in my hands. The wolves had won. They always won. My father's money had scrubbed the truth away. Preston was going to walk away, go on his luxury honeymoon to the Maldives, and live happily ever after while my daughter lay in a hospital bed with a traumatic brain injury.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my purse.
I ignored it. It buzzed again. And again.
Wiping my eyes, I pulled it out. It was a text message from an unknown number.
Unknown: Are you the mother of the little girl from the Whitmore wedding tonight?
My breath hitched. I typed back.
Me: Who is this?
Unknown: Someone who hates rich people who think they can buy reality. Your dad paid the GM $50,000 to wipe the server tonight.
My heart began to hammer against my ribs.
Me: Are you saying the video is gone?
Three dots appeared. They danced on the screen for what felt like an eternity. Finally, a new message popped up.
Unknown: The official server is wiped. But I'm the night-shift IT guy. And I saw what the GM was doing. I made a backup before he could delete it.
May you like
A link followed the message. A Google Drive link.
Unknown: Burn them to the ground.
