Chapter 2 - The Blood on Her Hands
The mother looked down, and a gasp of sheer horror caught in her throat.
A thin trickle of dark red blood was pooling beneath Oliver’s blonde hair onto the bright white tile. She cupped the back of his head, feeling the warmth of the blood staining her trembling palms.
She slowly lifted her head, her tear-filled eyes locking onto her father, Harold, and her mother, Margaret, who stood right behind him in a grey long-sleeve top. Heartbreak instantly transformed into an overwhelming, white-hot rage.
"He's just three years old! What did you do?!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the open glass sliding doors leading out to the backyard patio.
Outside on the patio, dozens of party guests—family friends, wealthy neighbors, and business associates—stopped laughing. The music died down as every head turned toward the kitchen glass door in utter shock.
Margaret covered her mouth for a brief second, but instead of rushing to her grandson's side, she looked nervously at the crowd of guests outside. She stepped forward, glaring down at her daughter with cold disgust.
"Stop making a scene... he had it coming," Margaret said in a sharp, dismissive whisper. "You're embarrassing us in front of everyone."
From the dining hallway, the husband’s voice boomed as he dialed 911, screaming for an ambulance and police unit.
The mother cradled her unconscious boy against her chest, staring up at her parents with an unyielding, icy glare.
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"You will pay for this," she said steadily, her gaze unwavering. "All of you."
👉 Why were Harold and Margaret more terrified of the guests looking in than the dying boy on the floor?
