Chapter 3 - EIGHT STITCHES
The doctor returned shortly after midnight.
Sophie had suffered a concussion and a deep cut near her temple.
She needed eight stitches.
The scans showed no internal bleeding.
Those words should have comforted me.
They did not erase the image of the oak board striking her.
They did not erase the moment my family chose Preston over an injured child.
When Sophie finally opened her eyes, she looked confused.
“Did I ruin the wedding?”
My throat tightened.
“No, sweetheart.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.”
She touched the bandage carefully.
“Uncle Preston said I was bad.”
“You are not bad.”
“He said everyone saw me steal.”
“You didn’t steal anything.”
I leaned close enough for her to see that I believed every word.
“Grandma and Uncle Preston put the phone in your jacket.”
Sophie stared at me.
“Grandma did it too?”
I wished I could protect her from that truth.
But protecting children did not mean teaching them to distrust their own memories.
“Yes.”
Her lower lip trembled.
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet.”
A nurse entered and told me someone wanted to see us.
My mother walked into the room carrying Sophie’s favorite stuffed rabbit.
She had bought it for Sophie’s sixth birthday.
For one dangerous second, I almost remembered her as a grandmother.
Then she closed the door.
“You need to fix this.”
Her voice was quiet and urgent.
I stood between her and the hospital bed.
“You helped Preston frame an eight-year-old.”
“I was trying to protect our family.”
“From what?”
She glanced toward Sophie.
“This is not a conversation for a child.”
“This child is the person you betrayed.”
My mother’s expression sharpened.
“Preston made a mistake.”
“He nearly fractured her skull.”
“He was under enormous pressure.”
“You handed him her jacket.”
Her face went still.
“The camera does not show everything.”
“It shows enough.”
She stepped closer.
“If you tell the police you misunderstood what happened, Preston can come home.”
“And what happens to Sophie?”
“She will recover.”
The coldness of those words stunned me.
My mother lowered her voice.
“If Preston is charged, the family company could collapse.”
I stared at her.
There it was.
Not love.
Not remorse.
Money.
Before I could respond, Detective Brooks entered the room.
She held a clear evidence bag containing Preston’s phone.
“We unlocked the financial folder.”
My mother turned pale.
May you like
Detective Brooks looked directly at me.
“Preston was preparing to take control of property registered in your daughter’s name.”
