Chapter 3 - THE DESTRUCTION OF THE DENIAL
I stared at the glowing screen for three rings before pressing accept.
I didn't answer with audio; I propped the phone up against the edge Detective Vance’s desk, ensuring the harsh fluorescent lights of the precinct and the backdrop of the shield emblem on the wall were clearly visible in the frame.
My father’s face filled the screen. He was sitting in his den at home, surrounded by half-empty champagne flutes and discarded wrapping paper from Lily’s party. His face was flushed, his tie completely gone, and his expression twisted into a mixture of drunken panic and authoritarian fury.
“Sarah! Where the hell are you?!” Dad barked into the camera. “Mark is calling the lawyers! He says you’ve turned off your phone and you’re threatening some insane, fabricated story about him hitting Lily’s cousin! Your mother is having heart palpitations upstairs!”
I didn’t interrupt him. I just sat there, arms folded, letting him dig his own grave.
“You march back here right now, apologize to your brother for embarrassing him in front of our friends, and we will pretend none of this childish temper tantrum ever happened,” Dad continued, his voice rising in volume as he realized I wasn't immediately cowering. “Do you hear me? You are destroying this family over a petty misunderstanding!”
When he finally paused to catch his breath, I leaned forward into the frame.
“Dad,” I said, my voice unnervingly calm.
He blinked, suddenly registering the background behind me. The metal filing cabinets. The framed precinct protocols on the bulletin board. The official police seal mounted on the wall.
“What... what is that background?” Dad stammered, his drunken bravado faltering for a split second. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the downtown police precinct, Dad,” I said clearly.
The color drained entirely from my father’s face. The arrogant, self-righteous patriarch vanished in an instant, replaced by a terrified, cornered man.
“You... you called the police?” he whispered, horror creeping into his voice. “On your own brother? Over a toddler’s tantrum? Are you insane? Do you know what this will do to Mark’s business? To his reputation in the community?”
“No, Dad,” I said, my voice hardening like iron. “You don't get to do that anymore. You don't get to protect his reputation while his handprint is still swelling across my two-year-old daughter’s face.”
“She fell!” Dad shouted, slamming his fist down on his desk so hard the camera shook. “Mark didn't hit her! We all saw her trip over the toy basket earlier! You’re framing your own brother because you’ve always been jealous of him!”
A dry, heavy voice intervened from off-camera.
“Mr. Starks?” Detective Vance leaned into the frame, his badge catching the fluorescent light. “This is Detective Vance, Seattle PD Major Crimes and Special Victims Unit. I’ve just reviewed the high-definition security footage and medical records from the emergency room. Your son Mark is currently being booked for felony child abuse. If you or any other family member attempts to alter testimony, destroy evidence, or intimidate the witness, we will add obstruction of justice and accessory charges to the docket. Have a pleasant evening.”
Vance reached out and tapped the red end-call button.
The screen went black.
For a moment, the precinct room was entirely silent.
Then Detective Vance let out a low whistle. “Well. That’s one way to handle family communications.”
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“It’s the only way that works with them,” I said, standing up and shifting a sleeping Emma into a more comfortable position against my hip.
“Unit 4 just radioed in,” Vance said, checking his terminal. “They’ve arrived at Mark’s residence in Bellevue. He’s being placed under arrest right now.”
