Chapter 8 - The Trap in Room 412
Caleb stepped closer, uncapping the syringe with his teeth.
"Insulin," Caleb whispered, his voice trembling with manic excitement. "A massive dose into your IV line. You’ll slip into a diabetic coma within ten minutes. By the time the back-up generators fully kick in and the nurses check on you, your heart will have stopped. They’ll mark it down as a medical complication from your trauma injuries."
I stared at the needle, then looked at Caleb’s flushed, sweat-stained face.
I didn't scream. I didn't cry.
Instead, I looked him dead in the eye and let out a cold, quiet laugh.
Caleb blinked, caught off guard. "What's so funny?"
"You really think you're smart, don't you, Caleb?" I said, leaning back against my pillows, keeping my voice completely calm. "You spent eleven years believing you were the master mind in our house. But you are so predictable."
"Shut up!" Caleb hissed, reaching for my IV line.
"Did you really think Detective Miller didn't expect you to come here?" I continued, pointing a finger toward the smoke detector on the ceiling above my bed.
Inside the small plastic casing of the smoke detector, a tiny red LED light flashed twice.
"That’s a high-definition encrypted police camera," I revealed, my voice echoing in the small room. "It’s broadcasting directly to Detective Miller’s squad car parked downstairs in the ER bay. Every word you just said—the insulin, the fake coma, the confession—has been recorded on a state evidence server."
Caleb’s eyes widened in sheer terror. He looked up at the smoke detector, then back at me.
"You're bluffing!" he screamed, lunging forward with the syringe raised.
"NOW!" I shouted at the top of my lungs.
The bathroom door inside my room flew open with a deafening bang.
Officer Marcus Vance and two armed SWAT officers charged into the bedroom, their weapons pointed directly at Caleb's chest.
"DROP THE SYRINGE! DROP IT NOW OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE!"
Caleb froze, the needle hovering inches from my arm.
He looked at the armed officers, looked at the flashing camera in the ceiling, and realized that he had walked directly into a masterfully orchestrated trap.
The syringe slipped from his trembling fingers, shattering against the hard floor.
Officer Vance tackled Caleb over the foot of my bed, slamming him into the floorboards, pulling his arms behind his back, and driving a knee directly into his shoulder blades.
"Caleb Walker," Detective Miller said, stepping into the room with her gun drawn. "You are under arrest for attempted murder, court order violation, burglary, and witness intimidation."
Caleb’s face was pressed hard against the linoleum. As the officers yanked him to his feet, he looked at me—sitting up in my bed, completely calm, holding my daughter’s hand as she woke up.
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"You trapped me," Caleb gasped, blood dripping from his lip. "You set me up!"
"No, Caleb," I said, looking down at him with absolute detachment. "You set yourself up eleven years ago when you thought I was too weak to fight back."
