Chapter 7 - The Broadcast
My IT specialist tapped his tablet.
The glittering logo of the Whitmore Children’s Foundation on the thirty-foot digital projection screen dissolved into black.
Then, the high-definition footage from my pearl brooch filled the wall.
The audio exploded through the ballroom’s surround-sound speakers.
“Maybe now you’ll learn what babies actually need!” Margaret’s harsh, grating voice echoed through the massive room.
On the screen, three hundred guests watched in absolute horror as Margaret Whitmore forced a baby diaper over the mouth of a pale, trembling Lily sitting on the carpet in her nursery.
They saw Lily choking, begging for mercy six days after a major surgery.
They watched Bradley leaning against the doorway, adjusting his cuffs with a bored, cruel expression, before delivering his line: “You can’t even care for a child. My mother was right. You’re too soft.”
In the ballroom, several women screamed in disgust. Mayor Vance set his drink down so hard the glass shattered across the tablecloth. The district attorney stood up from his chair, his eyes fixed on the screen in cold fury.
On screen, my voice came through crisp and clear: “Good. Say it again.”
Margaret’s face turned from pale to an unsightly, mottled purple. She clutched her pearl necklace so tightly the string snapped, sending white pearls cascading across the stage floor like tiny hail.
Bradley stumbled backward, slamming into a decorative ice sculpture, his face completely drained of color.
“Turn it off!” Margaret screamed hysterically, lunging toward the AV booth at the side of the stage. “Turn it off! It’s a fake! It’s an AI video! She fabricated it!”
“It’s not fabricated, Margaret,” Deputy Thomas said, walking up the stage stairs with two officers behind him, pulling steel handcuffs from his utility belt. “That video was uploaded live to a state law enforcement server with an encrypted timestamp.”
The news cameras in the back of the room were flashing wildly, broadcast journalists frantically speaking into their microphones as the story broke live across local television networks.
Deputy Thomas grabbed Bradley’s arm, pulling his hands behind his back.
“Bradley Whitmore, you are under arrest for domestic endangerment, conspiracy to commit fraud, and witness intimidation,” Thomas announced loudly.
An officer stepped up to Margaret, grabbing her wrists as she tried to slap his hands away.
“Margaret Whitmore, you are under arrest for felony domestic battery, assault, and child endangerment.”
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“You can’t arrest me!” Margaret shrieked, her voice echoing grotesquely over the sound of the video still playing on the loop behind her. “Do you know who I am? Do you know my family name?”
I stepped down from the stage, walked right past her as she was pushed toward the side exit in cuffs, and whispered, “Your family name is burning, Margaret. And I lit the match.”
