Her Vengeance, His Ruined Life

Name: Her Vengeance, His Ruined Life
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Gavin

Short stories | Completed

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My son was dead. The official report called it a suicide, a drug overdose. But I knew it was a lie. I was a Crime Scene Investigator, and I had processed his body myself. The evidence screamed murder. I appealed, seven times, each time presenting irrefutable proof. Each time, District Attorney Bentley Shannon slammed the door in my face, dismissing my grief as delusion. The system I had served for twenty years was protecting a killer. So, I took the law into my own hands. I kidnapped the District Attorney's daughter, Dallas Shannon, and broadcast my demands to the world. For every chance he wasted, I would use a forensic tool on her, permanently disfiguring her. The world watched, horrified, as I stapled her arm, then cauterized it, drawing thin red lines on her skin with a scalpel. My former mentor, Dr. Hooper, and my son's girlfriend, Alexandra, were brought in to convince me, to paint my son as depressed, to present a fabricated suicide note. For a moment, I wavered, the pain of being a "bad mother" crushing me. But then I saw it-a hidden message in his "suicide note," a secret code from his favorite childhood book. He wasn't giving up; he was crying for help. They had twisted his plea into a lie. My grief burned away, replaced by an unbreakable resolve. "I do not accept this note," I declared, pressing the cauterizing pen to Dallas's leg as the FBI swarmed in.

Crime Thriller Mystery Revenge Police

Chapter 10

Yesterday 20:48

Chapter 1

I appealed, seven times, each time presenting irrefutable proof. Each time, District Attorney Bentley Shannon slammed the door in my face, dismissing my grief as delusion. The system I had served for twenty years was protecting a killer.

So, I took the law into my own hands. I kidnapped the District Attorney's daughter, Dallas Shannon, and broadcast my demands to the world. For every chance he wasted, I would use a forensic tool on her, permanently disfiguring her.

The world watched, horrified, as I stapled her arm, then cauterized it, drawing thin red lines on her skin with a scalpel.

My former mentor, Dr. Hooper, and my son's girlfriend, Alexandra, were brought in to convince me, to paint my son as depressed, to present a fabricated suicide note. For a moment, I wavered, the pain of being a "bad mother" crushing me.

But then I saw it-a hidden message in his "suicide note," a secret code from his favorite childhood book. He wasn't giving up; he was crying for help. They had twisted his plea into a lie.

My grief burned away, replaced by an unbreakable resolve.

"I do not accept this note," I declared, pressing the cauterizing pen to Dallas's leg as the FBI swarmed in.

Chapter 1

My son was dead.

The official report said it was a suicide. A drug overdose. My Dustin, a track star with a full scholarship, a boy who planned his future with the same precision he used to clear hurdles, had apparently given up on life.

I knew it was a lie. I was a Crime Scene Investigator. I had processed my own son' s body.

The abrasions on his back were road rash. The specific fractures in his leg were from a bumper impact. The trace evidence I' d found, microscopic paint chips, matched a luxury sedan.

He was murdered. A hit-and-run.

I filed my first appeal. It was denied. I filed a second, a third, a fourth. Each time, I presented my evidence. Each time, a door was slammed in my face. After the seventh denial, I understood. The system I had served for twenty years was protecting a killer.

So, I took the law into my own hands.

I kidnapped the District Attorney' s daughter.

Now, the world was watching. A hidden camera broadcast my face, my voice, my resolve to every screen in the country.

"My name is Carolynn Thornton."

In the sterile, white room I' d prepared, eight-year-old Dallas Shannon lay on an examination table, identical to the one where I last saw my son. She was sedated, peaceful, unaware of the storm her abduction had caused.

"I have processed my own evidence. My son, Dustin Thornton, was murdered."

I looked directly into the camera, my gaze fixed on the man I knew was on the other side. District Attorney Bentley Shannon.

"You have seven chances. Seven, for the seven times you denied me justice. You will release the real crash report, and you will name the killer."

I picked up the first tool from a steel tray. It was a sterile, medical-grade skin stapler. Its metallic gleam caught the light.

"For every chance you waste, I will use a forensic tool on your daughter. It will permanently disfigure her."

The broadcast switched to a split screen. My cold, determined face on one side, the frantic, tear-streaked faces of Bentley and Chelsi Shannon on the other. They were in a police command center, surrounded by officers.

"Carolynn, please! For God's sake, don't do this!" Bentley begged, his voice cracking. "The evidence is clear! Your son was troubled. It was a tragedy, a suicide!"

His wife, Chelsi, a woman known for her icy composure, was a wreck. "She' s just a little girl! Please, whatever you want, we' ll give you! Just let our Dallas go!"

The internet exploded. The comments scrolling on the side of the livestream were a torrent of hate.

Monster.

She' s insane! Fry her!

How can a mother do this to another mother' s child?

I ignored them. Their words were meaningless noise. I looked at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes had passed.

"Your first chance is gone, Mr. Shannon."

My hand was steady. My professional calm, which had shattered the day I lost my son, had returned, repurposed into something cold and terrible. I pressed the stapler to the soft skin of Dallas' s upper arm.

Click.

The little girl whimpered in her sleep, a small frown creasing her brow. A single, silver staple now pierced her skin.

"I am waiting for the truth," I said, my voice as sterile as the room around me. "And I know the killer is watching."

On the other screen, Chelsi Shannon let out a scream that was swallowed by the chaos of the command center. Bentley' s face was a mask of pure horror and disbelief.

He looked at the camera, his eyes wide with a terror that was finally, finally real.

"You're a demon!" he screamed. "You're a monster!"

A detective, my former colleague, Detective Miller, came into the frame. "Carolynn, think about what you're doing. Think about Dustin. You processed his body. You know what it means to respect the dead."

The comment feed scrolled faster.

She' s not just a kidnapper, she' s a ghoul.

She touched her own son' s corpse? Sick.

I knew Dustin wasn't a suicide. I remembered finding him on that cold metal slab. They had tried to clean him up, but they couldn' t erase the truth. The dirt under his nails wasn't from a park; it was gravel from the shoulder of Highway 17. The fentanyl in his system was a high dose, yes, but the injection site was clumsy, amateurish, not something a person would do to themselves.

And the lividity, the way the blood had settled in his body, it told a story. He had died lying on his back, not slumped over in a park as the official report claimed.

Because I was his mother, they had assigned my mentor, Dr. Gilmore Hooper, to the case, citing a conflict of interest. I trusted him. He had taught me everything I knew.

Then his report came back. Suicide by overdose.

I demanded to see the evidence myself. When I found the paint chips on Dustin's jeans, the ones the official report conveniently missed, I knew. I presented them in my first appeal. Denied.

I presented the gravel analysis in my second. Denied.

I presented the flawed toxicology timeline in my third. Denied.

For my seventh and final appeal, I presented a 3D scan of his leg, showing the unmistakable spiral fracture pattern from a car bumper hitting a pedestrian. It was irrefutable.

They denied it without comment.

That was when I knew the law was a lie. That was when I decided to create a truth the D.A. couldn't ignore.

My grief had burned away, leaving only a cold, hard purpose. I would get justice for Dustin, or I would burn their world to the ground.