Chapter 3 - Echoes in the Hospital Wing
Back at St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital, the sterile scent of antiseptic and bleach hung heavy in the pediatric burn ward.
I sat beside Emma’s bed, holding her small, trembling hand. The left side of her face was swathed in sterile white gauze and specialized burn dressings, cool to the touch to soothe the chemical fire eating into her dermal tissue. The doctors had administered a mild sedative, but even in her sleep, her breathing hitched every few minutes as if she were still choking on the smoke of her own panic.
The door clicked open softly, and a nurse stepped inside, checking the intravenous drip line before giving me a reassuring nod.
“She’s resting as well as can be expected, Mrs. Pierce,” the nurse whispered. “The necrosis has been stopped. The specialist said the immediate application of water saved her from permanent, full-thickness scarring on her cheekbone and eye. But… it’s going to be a long recovery. Emotionally as well as physically.”
“Thank you,” I whispered back, my voice cracking.
As the nurse slipped back out into the hallway, my phone buzzed violently against the metal tray table.
An incoming text message from an unknown number. No name, just a string of encrypted digits.
I hesitated, my heart hammering against my ribs, then slid my thumb across the screen.
Attached file: 1 video. Opening size: 12.4 MB.
My fingers hovered over the play button. The hospital room felt suddenly claustrophobic, the steady beep-beep of the heart monitor sounding like a countdown timer. I pressed play.
The screen flickered to life. It was dimly lit, shot from the perspective of someone holding a phone steady in a basement or garage.
It was Richard’s workshop behind his primary residence.
On the workbench sat rows of identical pink cosmetic jars, lined up like toy soldiers. In the center of the frame, Richard’s hands—rough, calloused, and steady—were pouring a thick, viscous stream of caustic drain cleaner from a heavy plastic jug into a large glass mixing bowl, blending it with a spatula alongside expensive French lotion.
He looked up directly into the camera lens, a faint, cold smile touching the corners of his mouth.
“Some lessons,” Richard’s voice echoed clearly through the phone’s tiny speaker, “have to burn deep before they are learned.”
The video cut to black.
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Before I could even catch my breath, my phone rang. It was Detective Miller.
“Mrs. Pierce?” Miller’s voice was urgent, cut through with the sound of roaring wind and sirens wailing in the background. “We’re at the Blackwood cabin. The door’s kicked in, but he’s gone. And Mrs. Pierce… you need to look at your front porch security camera feed right now. Something isn't right back at your house.”
