Chapter 8 - THE STAIRCASE TRUTH
“Give me the phone, or I’ll finish what I started when you were fourteen,” my mother snarled, her hand lunging forward to lock around my throat. The sudden violence sent a wine glass crashing across the white tablecloth, sending dark red liquid bleeding across the fabric like fresh blood. She shoved me back against the chair, her fingers tightening around my windpipe with terrifying malice.
For a split second, the fourteen-year-old girl inside me panicked, reliving the horrific night she pushed me down the hardwood flight of stairs because I tried to stop her from striking four-year-old Josie. But the adult Rowan did not freeze. I looked past her distorted, enraged face and saw Josie standing in the doorway, phone raised high, capturing the brutal physical assault in crystal-clear high definition.
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“You think anyone will ever believe an unstable girl over a respected mother?” my mother hissed, shaking me slightly as she tightened her grip.
Using my hands, I didn't fight her wrists; instead, I looked directly into her eyes and let out a calm, steady breath. “They don't have to believe me,” I choked out, pointing toward the corner of the ceiling where a small security camera I had discreetly placed earlier in the evening was blinking softly. “They just have to listen to the confession you just delivered to federal standards.”
