Chapter 6 - The Discovery
“Freeze! Hands where I can see them!” Detective Miller roars, leveling her service pistol directly at Julian as he stumbles backward onto the manicured lawn.
Julian throws his hands up in the air, plastering a frantic, theatrical expression of innocence across his face.
“Sarah! Thank God!” Julian cries out, taking a step forward. “It’s Clara! She had a complete psychotic break! She went out into the garden in the middle of the night and started digging a hole, screaming that she needed to hide from the government! We were just trying to calm her down—”
Miller doesn't lower her weapon. Her eyes scan the lawn, darting past Julian, past the rocking chairs on the porch, and landing directly on the small mound of churned earth where my face is protruding from the ground like a grotesque garden ornament.
The color drains entirely from Miller’s face.
“Jesus Christ,” she breathes, lowering her gun in sheer horror.
“Get over here!” Miller barks at the two deputies. “Dig her out! Now!”
The deputies rush forward, dropping their heavy duty gear onto the grass. They grab shovels from the side patio and begin frantically hacking away at the hard-packed earth surrounding my shoulders.
“Careful with the baby!” I manage to rasp out through the straw, my voice cracking with agony.
“We got you, ma’am. Hold on, we’re right here,” one of the deputies says, his face pale as he uses his bare hands to scoop away the final inches of dirt pressing against my chest.
As the weight is finally lifted off my ribs, a rush of cold mountain air slams into my lungs. I gasp, choking and coughing violently as the plastic straw falls away from my bloody lips.
Detective Miller drops to her knees beside the pit, gently sliding her jacket off her shoulders and wrapping it around my shivering, mud-caked frame.
“Get an ambulance here right now!” Miller screams into her shoulder radio, her eyes filling with tears as she looks at my ruined, bruised face. “Code three! We need obstetrics on standby!”
Across the lawn, Julian is being forced face-down onto the grass by a deputy, the cold click of steel handcuffs echoing sharply through the foggy morning air.
“You can’t do this!” Julian screams, thrashing against the pavement. “This is my property! She’s my wife! She’s mentally unstable!”
“Shut up, Mr. Blackwood, you’ve got the right to remain silent,” the deputy growls, pressing his knee firmly into Julian’s spine.
As the paramedics rush across the lawn with a stretcher and an oxygen mask, I slowly lift my right hand out of the deep mud where it has been buried for four agonizing days.
Clutched tightly in my stiff, blue fingers is the Ziploc bag containing my phone.
The screen is still lit. The automated audio recording software is still running, pulsing with a steady red indicator light.
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I look up at Detective Miller, a cold, fierce smile cutting through the mud and blood on my face.
“You don't need a warrant to search my phone, Detective,” I whisper, holding the device out toward her. “I already recorded everything.”
