Chapter 3 - THE PAPERS
The police arrived twelve minutes later.
Two patrol cars stopped outside my mother’s house.
By then, most of the party guests had disappeared.
Funny how quickly family vanishes when flashing lights appear.
Officer Martinez took my statement.
Another officer spoke with Connor.
Grace refused to leave my arms.
Sabrina sat on the patio with an ice pack against her cheek.
Every few minutes she glared at me.
My mother kept repeating the same sentence.
“This is a family misunderstanding.”
Officer Martinez finally stopped writing.
“Ma’am, locking a five-year-old child in a basement for hours isn’t a misunderstanding.”
“She wasn’t locked in.”
Connor spoke from across the yard.
“Yes, she was.”
Diane shot him a murderous look.
The officer saw it.
“Please don’t address the child.”
My mother looked offended.
“He’s my grandson.”
“At the moment, he’s also a witness.”
That shut her up.
I gave the tablet to police.
Connor had recorded seven videos.
Seven.
I had only watched two.
I wasn’t ready for the others.
While the officers photographed Grace’s butchered hair, I noticed Sabrina whispering into my mother’s ear.
Then Diane walked inside.
I followed.
“Where are you going?”
“To get my medication.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I said I’ll come.”
She turned sharply.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
I stopped.
“What?”
“All this attention.”
For a second, I was twelve years old again.
Standing in our kitchen while my mother accused me of crying for sympathy after Sabrina broke my favorite necklace.
Diane had always known exactly where to put the knife.
I stared at her.
“You hurt my daughter.”
“She’s not your possession.”
“She is my child.”
“She’s family.”
“That doesn’t give you rights over her.”
My mother smiled strangely.
“You might want to rethink that.”
I followed her into the home office.
She opened the bottom drawer of her desk.
Inside was a thick manila folder.
She grabbed it.
I grabbed her wrist.
“What’s that?”
“None of your business.”
“Then why are you hiding it?”
She tried to pull away.
The folder ripped.
Documents spilled across the floor.
One page landed near my shoe.
I bent down.
At the top were the words:
PETITION FOR TEMPORARY GUARDIANSHIP.
Grace Elizabeth Carter.
Petitioners: Diane Morgan and Sabrina Morgan.
My hands went numb.
“What is this?”
My mother didn’t answer.
I looked through the pages.
They claimed I was unstable.
Neglectful.
Financially irresponsible.
They claimed I left Grace unattended.
That I drank heavily.
That I had “unpredictable emotional episodes.”
It was a complete fabrication.
Every word.
Then I reached a page containing photographs.
My apartment.
My car.
Grace’s school.
Pictures taken from across the street.
I looked up.
“You’ve been following us?”
Diane’s expression hardened.
“We were documenting your lifestyle.”
“My lifestyle?”
“You work too much.”
“I work forty hours a week.”
“You leave Grace with babysitters.”
“Two afternoons a week.”
“You’re divorced.”
“So are millions of people.”
“She needs stability.”
“She had stability until you locked her in a basement!”
Diane grabbed the papers.
I refused to release them.
“Were you planning to take her from me?”
“You don’t deserve her.”
The words landed harder than any slap.
My mother leaned close.
“You never have.”
I stared at her.
Then I noticed one particular page.
A notarized statement.
Signed by someone named Dr. Peter Lang.
It claimed I had been hospitalized for psychiatric treatment three months earlier.
I had never met Dr. Lang.
I had never been hospitalized.
“This is forged.”
Diane said nothing.
“This whole thing is forged.”
Footsteps entered behind us.
Officer Martinez appeared in the doorway.
“What’s going on?”
I handed him the papers.
“My mother was planning to steal my child.”
He read the top page.
His expression changed.
Then his partner called from outside.
“Martinez?”
“What?”
“You need to see video number six.”
I looked at Connor.
He was crying now.
Officer Martinez walked quickly toward the patio.
I followed.
The second officer held the tablet.
Video number six was paused.
The image showed Grace asleep on my mother’s couch.
Sabrina stood beside her.
In one hand, she held my daughter’s arm.
In the other…
A syringe.
May you like
I stopped breathing.
“What did you inject into my daughter?”
