Chapter 3 - The Family's Counter-Attack
By Monday morning, the news of Grant Holloway’s arrest had sent shockwaves through the local community.
Grant had been a prominent figure in the county for thirty years—a wealthy building contractor, a board member at the local bank, and a man who frequented local charity galas. To the outside world, he was a pillar of suburban success.
To us, he was a tyrant.
At 10:00 AM, my phone began ringing uncontrollably. It was my mother. When I didn't answer, she sent five frantic text messages in a row:
Denise: Claire! You have to talk to the police right now! Tell them it was an accident! Your father is in a cold cell with real criminals! His blood pressure is spiking!
Denise: If he stays in jail, his business will collapse! Think about your family, Claire! Think about Mason and your brother!
Denise: You are destroying this family over a small mark on Ava's hand! Answer me!
I deleted the messages without replying.
An hour later, as Scott and I were finalizing Ava’s discharge papers at the hospital, my brother Brad showed up in the hallway.
He didn't look like the smug man who had been sipping beer by the grill yesterday. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair was messy, and his eyes were wide with desperate anger. Two hospital security guards stood five feet behind him, keeping a close eye on his movements.
"Claire!" Brad called out, stepping toward us as we walked down the corridor with Ava in a wheelchair.
Scott instantly stepped in front of the wheelchair, his broad shoulders completely blocking Brad from reaching our daughter.
"Take one more step toward my family, Brad," Scott warned, his voice low and sharp, "and you'll be spending the night in the cell right next to your father."
Brad stopped, swallowing hard, but his face twisted into an expression of desperate arrogance. "Claire, please! Dad’s attorney said you filed a full criminal complaint and a restraining order! Are you out of your mind?!"
"He burned my child, Brad," I said, stepping around Scott so I could look my brother dead in the eye. "And you watched."
"It was a mistake!" Brad yelled, looking around the hallway as if searching for someone to agree with him. "Dad lost his temper! You know how he gets when he's under stress! He’s an old-fashioned man! You can't put your own father in prison over a momentary lapse of judgment!"
"A momentary lapse of judgment?" I echoed bitterly. "He pressed red-hot metal into a seven-year-old girl's flesh! That isn't a lapse of judgment, Brad. That's sadism."
"If Dad goes down, his construction company goes into receivership!" Brad shouted, his voice cracking with panic. "I'm the vice president! My salary, my house, Mason's private school tuition—it's all tied to Dad’s company! You're going to ruin my life!"
"You ruined your own life the second you decided your paycheck was more important than your niece's safety," I replied coldly.
"We scrubbed the grill!" Brad suddenly blurted out, a desperate, triumphant smirk touching his lips. "My wife washed the tongs with bleach yesterday afternoon! We threw away the clothes she was wearing! You have no physical evidence! It's just your word against the whole family's!"
Scott pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen, and turned it toward Brad.
On the high-definition display, a crystal-clear video played. It showed Sarah, Brad’s wife, pouring bleach over the BBQ tongs in the backyard sink while Brad stood beside her, saying: "Make sure you get all the skin tissue off the tips so the cops can't test it."
The footage had been captured twenty minutes after the arrest by a federal surveillance drone Scott’s team had deployed to monitor the perimeter of the crime scene.
Brad’s face turned an ashen, ghostly white. His jaw dropped open.
"Evidence tampering is a Class 3 felony in this state, Brad," Scott informed him with a cold, terrifying calm. "My officers are at your house right now serving an arrest warrant for your wife."
"No..." Brad whispered, stumbling backward. "No, please! Sarah has nothing to do with this!"
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"She's an accomplice to child abuse and obstruction of justice," Scott said. "Guards, escort this man off the premises. If he returns, place him under arrest immediately."
The two hospital security guards grabbed Brad by the arms and dragged him backward down the hallway while he screamed, wept, and pleaded for mercy that had long since run out.
