“We discovered discrepancies during an audit,” she said, and then she added words that shattered the last fragile version of reality I had built for myself.
“Your son did not die from a genetic condition, because someone introduced a toxic substance into his IV line, and we have footage that confirms it.”
I could not breathe, and every memory I had buried came back all at once with unbearable clarity.
That same day I returned to the hospital I had sworn never to enter again, and two detectives led me into a small room with a screen and told me to prepare myself.
When the footage played, I saw myself first, sitting beside Mason’s incubator with grief already shaping my posture, and then I watched myself leave after a nurse gently insisted I needed rest.
Minutes passed on the video before a masked figure entered, moved with chilling calm, and injected something directly into Mason’s IV line.
I whispered, “No, please no,” but the video did not stop.
The figure turned toward the hallway camera, and when the image froze and zoomed in, I saw eyes I recognized instantly, along with a faint scar near the temple that I had seen countless times before.