Chapter 2 - THE POINTED FINGER
The silence in that small visiting room pressed down so hard it felt like it would crush us all. Douglas froze, his hand hovering inches from the door handle, his face draining from pale to ashen gray. He tried to laugh—a sharp, jagged sound that had no humor in it at all.
“That’s ridiculous,” he snapped, but his voice shook so badly the words cracked. “He’s just a scared little boy. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
But Mason didn’t look away. He clung tighter to Mom’s arm, tears streaming down his face, and nodded fiercely.
“I saw you,” he repeated, his voice growing stronger through the sobs. “I woke up because I heard shouting. I stood at the top of the stairs. You pulled the knife out of Dad… and you put it under Mom’s bed. You wiped your hands on her robe while she was asleep.”
The warden stepped forward, his expression grim and sharp. “Secure the room. No one leaves. Get the lead investigator on the line immediately.”
Douglas’s eyes darted wildly from face to face—at me, at Mom, at the guards who now blocked every exit. He tried to reach into his jacket pocket, but two officers grabbed his arms before he could touch anything.
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“I didn’t do it!” he shouted, thrashing against their grip. “She’s lying! The boy is confused! All the evidence was there—her prints, her clothes, the weapon—”
“Evidence you planted,” I said quietly, and for the first time in six years, the heavy doubt that had lived in my chest shattered into absolute certainty. “You planted every single thing.”
