Chapter 6 - The Voice Through the Static
The tinny, automated preamble of the county jail proxy line crackled through the speaker of the secure phone, followed immediately by the heavy, familiar breathing of my husband.
“Elena?” Marcus’s voice sounded smaller than it had in the hospital hallway, stripped of its cruel bravado, reduced to the whining pitch of a cornered coward. “Elena, please... you have to drop the charges. Tell the prosecutor it was a misunderstanding. Mom is having a panic attack in the holding unit; she can’t handle the concrete floors, and they won’t let her have her medication.”
I didn't answer right away. I held the phone two inches from my ear, listening to the hollow echo of his desperation, letting the silence stretch until it became an unbearable weight on his end.
“You’re calling from a holding cell, Marcus,” I said, my voice completely level, devoid of anger or grief, colder than winter ice. “You should be getting used to concrete floors. You spent five years making sure I lived on them.”
“We were just trying to fix our family!” he sobbed, the pathetic veneer cracking entirely into raw, self-pitying rage. “You brought bad blood into our house! You only gave me girls! And now you’ve ruined everything because of one accident—”
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“It wasn't an accident, Marcus,” I interrupted quietly. “And it wasn't just bad blood. It was murder. I’ll see you in court on Thursday.”
I tapped the red disconnect button before he could scream another word. The screen went dark, but the air in the sterile hospital room felt instantly lighter, as if a toxic cloud had finally been vacuumed out of my lungs.
