Chapter 3: The Truth in High Definition
Chapter 3: The Truth in High Definition
"Mr. Bennett," Detective Vance said, walking directly up to my father. "I suggest you and your counsel step back. This is an active criminal investigation."
"Detective, I am a senior partner at—" Richard started, his voice booming with his usual courtroom bravado.
"I don't care if you're the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court," Detective Vance cut him off coldly. "A child was hospitalized tonight. Ms. Evelyn Bennett, I need you to come to the precinct to view the footage and finalize your statement. Your brother is currently being detained at the 1st District station."
My mother let out a sharp gasp. "Detained? Preston is in jail? On his wedding night?!"
"He was picked up at the Drake Hotel trying to board a private vehicle," the detective replied without an ounce of sympathy.
"Evelyn, don't you dare," Carolyn hissed, her polished facade completely crumbling. She lunged forward, grabbing my arm, her nails digging into my skin. "If you do this, you are no longer a Bennett. We will wipe you out. You will have nothing!"
I looked down at her hand, then looked her dead in the eye. "Good. The Bennett name smells like blood anyway."
I followed Detective Vance out of the hospital, leaving my parents staring at each other in a panic they had never experienced in their entire privileged lives.
At the police station, the air was thick with the smell of cheap coffee and old paper. The detective led me into a small interrogation room and plugged the flash drive into a computer monitor.
"This is the feed from the Whitmore Hotel ballroom, camera four, positioned directly above the entrance facing the head table," Detective Vance explained, hitting play.
The screen flickered to life. The footage was crystal clear.
I watched the screen as the reception played out. There was Preston, laughing, drinking champagne, the golden boy in his element. Then, I saw him slide his hand into his tuxedo pocket, pull out his titanium iPhone, and look around. The footage showed him explicitly glancing toward the security camera—but he miscalculated the angle. He thought the heavy floral arrangement blocked the lens.
It didn't.
The camera captured every single movement. Preston walked past Sophie’s chair while she was looking at the cake. With the practiced agility of a criminal, he slipped the phone deep into the pocket of her denim jacket hanging on the back of the seat. He then walked back to the head table, waited exactly four minutes, and grabbed the microphone to announce his phone was missing.
The video continued. It showed the confrontation. It showed me stepping in front of Sophie. And then, it showed the moment that would haunt me forever: Preston reaching for the heavy oak menu board, lifting it high above his head, and swinging it down with full force.
The camera caught the exact moment the wood connected with my daughter’s head. It caught the spray of blood. It caught my parents standing completely still, watching their granddaughter fall, their faces filled not with horror, but with annoyance.
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"This is open-and-shut aggravated battery to a minor, a Class X felony in the state of Illinois," Detective Vance said, shutting off the monitor. "He’s looking at up to thirty years in prison. But your father is already pulling strings, Ms. Bennett. They’ve already filed for a bail hearing first thing in the morning."
"Let them try," I whispered, the fire inside me burning hotter than it ever had before. "I want to press charges. Full extent of the law."
