Chapter 2 - The Preservation of Ruin
The sterile smell of bleach and the rhythmic, terrifying beep of the heart monitor were the first things that registered when I finally woke up. The entire left side of my head throbbed with a blinding, white-hot agony that made my stomach churn. I tried to move, but a heavy, warm hand gently pressed my shoulder down.
“Don’t move, Sadie. You’re safe. I’m right here.”
It was Wyatt. His voice was hoarse, cracking with an emotion I had rarely heard from him—pure, unfiltered terror. I forced my right eye open. Wyatt was sitting beside the hospital bed, his custom tailored suit stained with dark, dried crimson. My blood. His knuckles were bruised and scraped from where he had tackled my father into the rose bushes.
“My eye...” I whispered, the words scraping against my dry throat.
“The doctors saved it,” Wyatt said, leaning in close, his forehead resting against my uninjured hand. “Your orbital bone is fractured, and you have severe lacerations, but the optic nerve is intact. You’re going to need reconstructive surgery, sweetheart. But you’re alive.”
I closed my eye, a tear slipping down the right side of my face. The memory of the dull, sickening crunch echoed in my ears. The image of my mother laughing—a sound so devoid of maternal instinct it chilled me to the bone—played on a loop behind my eyelids.
Before I could speak, the heavy wooden door of the hospital room swung open. Two police officers stepped inside, holding clipboards. Their expressions were unreadable, professionally detached.
“Ms. Davis, I’m Officer Miller, and this is Officer Vance,” the taller one said. “We need to get your statement regarding the... accident.”
“Accident?” Wyatt stood up, his chair scraping violently against the linoleum floor. “A man smashed a brick into my fiancée’s face! That is not an accident. That is attempted murder.”
“Mr. Campbell, please,” Officer Vance said, raising a hand. “We spoke to Gregory and Brenda Davis, as well as your sister, Melanie. They are claiming self-defense. They stated that you, Ms. Davis, became violently unhinged when your family suggested you were emotionally manipulating Mr. Campbell. They claim you attacked your sister, and your father intervened with a piece of landscaping debris to protect her.”
A cold numbness spread through my chest, freezing the pain. They had rehearsed it. In the minutes after the ambulance drove away, my mother, my father, and Melanie had fabricated a story. Three against one. Or so they thought.
“They’re lying,” I said, my voice suddenly finding its strength. I looked directly at Officer Miller. “I was standing still. My father picked up a brick from the garden border. He struck me intentionally. My mother laughed. And my sister complained about her dinner being ruined.”
The officers exchanged a look. “It’s a he-said, she-said situation right now, Ms. Davis. Without hard proof—”
“The electrician,” I interrupted. “There was a utility worker. He saw the aftermath. He saw my father step toward him.”
“We are tracking down the utility company,” Vance noted.
“And the brick,” I added, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Did you secure the brick? It has my father’s fingerprints on the rough edges, and my blood on the heavy end. And the blood spatter on the porch—it proves I was standing at the bottom of the steps, far away from Melanie. Please tell me you preserved the evidence.”
Officer Miller frowned slightly. “A crime scene unit was dispatched to photograph the area.”
“I want the brick bagged. I want the DNA tested,” I demanded, ignoring the searing pain in my face. I looked at Wyatt. “Call Daniel.”
Daniel was Wyatt’s corporate bulldog—a ruthless, high-powered attorney who handled billion-dollar acquisitions. He wasn't a criminal lawyer, but he had the money and power to hire the best ones in the state.
“Already done,” Wyatt said, his eyes burning with a fierce, protective fire. “He’s bringing a private forensic team. They’re not getting away with this, Sadie. I promise you.”
As the police left to make their calls, my mind drifted back to the last thing I saw before the ambulance doors closed. The window. The curtain. The trembling hand.
“Wyatt,” I whispered, gripping his hand tightly. “There was an old man in the living room window. When I was being loaded into the ambulance. He looked terrified.”
Wyatt frowned. “An old man? Your parents live alone with Melanie.”
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“I know what I saw,” I insisted. “He was trying to warn me. Wyatt, there’s something else going on in that house. Something much bigger than Melanie wanting your money.”
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