Chapter 2 - The Resuscitation and the Interrogation
The flatline tone sliced through the sterile air of the NICU like a razor. For five agonizing seconds, time stopped. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, my vision tunneling down to the small, unmoving form of my premature daughter inside the plastic dome.
“Code blue, Bed 4!” Dr. Brooks shouted, her voice cutting through the panic.
Nurse Teresa slammed her palm onto the manual ventilator bag, forcing air into Ruby’s lungs. Another nurse ripped open a supply cart, deploying emergency crash cart paddles scaled down to infant size. Patrick grabbed my shoulders, pulling me back as I tried to throw myself over the incubator.
“Let them work, Natalie! Let them work!” Patrick yelled, his own voice cracking with a terror I had rarely seen in him.
“She’s flatlining! Look at the monitor!” I screamed, tears finally breaking free, hot and blinding down my cheeks.
In the hallway, through the reinforced glass, I could see two security guards standing on either side of Mason. My son stood rigidly upright, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his zip-up hoodie. He wasn't crying. His expression was a terrifying, hollow mask of blankness that didn't belong on a ten-year-old boy. He was staring directly at me, not at the frantic medical staff fighting for his sister's life.
“Charge to ten joules, clear!” Dr. Brooks commanded.
A sharp zap echoed through the room. Ruby’s tiny body arched slightly against the mattress.
Silence hung for another heart-stopping second. Then, a jagged, electronic beep stuttered across the monitor.
Beep... beep... beep-beep.
“We have a pulse back,” Teresa breathed out, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her sterile-gloved hand. “Oxygen saturation coming up. Eighty-two... eighty-five... steady.”
I collapsed against Patrick, my legs finally giving out, the sheer adrenaline crash leaving me shaking violently. Patrick held me tight, but his eyes were fixed on the doorway, blazing with fury.
“That little monster,” Patrick muttered under his breath, venom dripping from every syllable. “He almost killed her. He actually tried to kill her.”
“No,” I whispered, catching my breath as Dr. Brooks stepped away from the stable incubator, her face grim. “No, Mason said... he said she wasn't breathing.”
“He’s lying, Natalie!” Patrick raised his voice, drawing the sharp glare of Dr. Brooks. “Open your eyes! He has been acting out for months. He threatened her. He said he wished she was dead. And now he pulls the plug on her life support, and you’re defending him?”
“I’m not defending him, I’m trying to understand!” I fired back, pushing away from Patrick.
Dr. Brooks walked over to us, pulling off her gloves and tossing them into a biohazard bin. Her expression was solemn, professional, yet weighed down by a profound weariness.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hayes,” Dr. Brooks began quietly, lowering her voice so the nursing staff couldn't overhear. “Ruby is stable for the moment, but that episode of hypoxia was extremely dangerous for an infant of her gestational age. Her brain and lungs cannot handle prolonged oxygen deprivation.”
“Doctor, our son unplugged her incubator,” Patrick said, his jaw clenched tight. “He admitted to it right in front of the security guard. He needs to be evaluated. Or worse.”
“Patrick, stop it!” I snapped. “He’s ten!”
“Age doesn't matter when malice is involved,” Patrick countered, glaring at me.
Dr. Brooks held up a hand to quiet us. “We need to look at the telemetry data. Every machine in this unit logs continuous data streams—power draws, environmental controls, and infant vitals. If Mason disconnected the power, the system recorded the exact sequence of events leading up to it.”
She looked toward the hallway where Mason was still detained by security.
“Furthermore,” Dr. Brooks continued, “we need to review the station's security camera footage. The corridor camera captures the doorway and part of the interior of Bed 4. It will show us precisely what happened in the moments before the alarm tripped.”
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My heart hammered against my ribs. Part of me desperately wanted to see that footage to prove Mason’s innocence—to prove that my sweet, sensitive boy hadn't turned into a monster. But another, more terrified part of me feared the truth. What if Patrick was right? What if the jealousy had finally consumed him?
“Let’s check the footage,” I said, my voice trembling. “Right now.”
