Chapter 3 - The Fracture
Daniel’s face drained of color, the arrogant mask instantly shattering. For a fleeting second, he looked less like a billionaire titan and more like a cornered animal.
“You have no jurisdiction here without a warrant,” Daniel recovered quickly, his voice regaining its icy edge. He stepped past Detective Thorne, blocking the doorway to the room. “This is private property. Get off my estate or I’ll have my legal team sue your department into the ground.”
“Warrant’s already signed by Judge Holloway,” Marcus said smoothly, pulling a folded document from his coat pocket and unfolding it with infuriating slowness. “Issued ten minutes ago based on an anonymous tip regarding medical abuse and the suspicious circumstances surrounding the late Mrs. Vale’s estate.”
Vivienne pushed her way past Daniel, her face twisted in absolute rage. “This is absurd! This woman—this common servant—has poisoned his mind! Daniel, do something!”
“Step back, ma’am,” Marcus warned, his posture shifting from casual to commanding. He looked past them and met my eyes. “Rosa, do it.”
I didn't hesitate. I dropped to my knees beside Mateo, who was now shivering so violently his teeth were chattering.
“Hold still, Mateo,” I murmured, positioning the heavy medical shears against the thick plaster.
“What are you doing? Stop her!” Daniel lunged forward, his hands clawing at the air.
Marcus moved with lightning speed, intercepting Daniel and slamming him against the hallway wall with a dull thud. “Stay back, Vale! Interference with a police-backed rescue operation is a felony.”
“You’ll regret this!” Daniel roared, thrashing against Marcus’s grip.
With a deep breath, I squeezed the handles of the shears. Crack. The plaster gave way with a sickening crunch, releasing a puff of stale, chemical-scented air. Crack. Again, I cut through the heavy layers of fiberglass and padding. Mateo cried out, clutching my shoulder as the pressure on his arm began to lift.
I pulled away the final chunk of white casing.
The sight underneath made my stomach heave. Mateo’s forearm was mottled purple and black, crisscrossed with angry red track marks. Embedded deep into the muscle near his inner elbow was a sleek, metallic cylinder no larger than a fountain pen, with a tiny blinking red LED light.
“Get the paramedics up here now!” I shouted over Daniel’s curses.
Marcus kicked the door wider. “EMS, clear the hall!” Two paramedics in high-visibility jackets rushed into the nursery, medical kits flying open.
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As they lifted Mateo onto a stretcher, I reached down and plucked the metallic cylinder out of the boy's arm. It detached with a wet, sucking sound. I held it up, the LED light still pulsing in the dim nursery light.
“Dr. Harlan’s signature treatment,” I whispered, looking straight at Daniel. “You didn't break his arm, did you, Daniel? You broke him.”
