Ethan’s small, shaking finger remained locked onto Uncle Victor, cutting through the suffocating silence of the execution holding suite like a surgical blade. Victor’s face violently drained of all color, turning a sickening, hollow shade of ash gray as his hand froze on the brass handle of the exit door.
“He… he’s lying!” Victor stammered, his polished, grief-stricken persona completely liquidating into a frantic, breathless panic. “The boy was only two years old when it happened! He’s traumatized! He’s projecting a nightmare because he can’t handle his mother’s sentence!”
“Ethan doesn’t lie about his sweater, Victor,” my mother, Caroline, whispered smoothly, her voice dropping into a flat, sub-zero register that made the guards instantly unholster their sidearms. She stood up as much as the metal restraints allowed, her posture perfectly straight. “Six years ago, on the night my husband died, you arrived at this house before the first patrol car. You told the investigators you were just checking on us, completely blind to the fact that my toddler was hiding inside the kitchen pantry.”
