Chapter 7 - The Screen Goes Black
Arthur’s hand lashed out like a striking serpent, his fingers closing around the metal leg of the tripod just as the amber battery light blinked its final warning. With a brutal yank, he sent the entire camera rig crashing into the blooming hydrangeas, snapping the plastic mount with a sharp, ugly crack. The live feed stuttered, flashing a chaotic blur of green grass and grey sky before freezing on a single, agonizing frame of Clara’s tear-stained face staring directly into the lens.
Then, the screen went completely black.
In millions of homes across America, the sudden cut triggered a massive wave of panic and digital outrage. The comment sections exploded with millions of frantic users demanding to know if the girl in the yellow dress was still alive, while federal cyber-crimes divisions in Washington received an unprecedented spike in emergency calls.
In the garden, the silence was deafening.
Arthur stood over the shattered remains of the camera, his chest heaving as he crushed the plastic lens housing beneath the heel of his expensive oxford shoe. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and wide, glaring down at Marcus and Clara with murderous intent.
"Where is the physical backup?" Arthur demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh, gravelly whisper. "Tell me where the drive is right now, or I swear to God I’ll finish what the fire started."
Marcus stood up slowly, positioning himself between Arthur and the wheelchair, his fists clenched so tight his arms shook. He had never been a fighter, but looking at the man who had ordered the murder of their parents, a cold, empty rage hollowed out his fear.
"You're too late, Arthur," Marcus said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "The packet cleared the gateway three seconds before you broke the lens. It's already on the wire."
Arthur’s face went completely slack. The color drained from his skin, leaving him looking suddenly old, frail, and cornered. He reached into his coat pocket again, but this time his fingers fumbled clumsily with the lining, unable to find purchase.
Clara looked down at the birthday cake in her lap. The candles had burned down to tiny stubs, drowning in pools of warm, white wax. The floral decorations were scorched around the edges, but the words "Happy Birthday" remained legible through the dark streaks of melted icing.
"You killed them for money, Arthur," Clara said softly, lifting her head to meet his terrified gaze. "And you thought a bandage and a wheelchair would keep me quiet."
Arthur took a step back, shaking his head in frantic denial. "The police... the police report says it was an accident. No one will believe two traumatized kids over a board of directors."
"They won't have to believe us," a deep, authoritative voice boomed from the arched stone entryway behind the garden.
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Everyone froze. Marcus spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. Standing in the entrance, flanked by two uniformed state troopers with their hands resting on their holstered sidearms, was Detective Vance. He held a heavy tablet computer in his hand, the screen glowing brightly with a familiar notification banner from a major national news network.
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