Chapter 5 - The Second PersonThe second person in the video wore a hood.
That decision belonged to the child-protection team, the police, and the pediatric psychologist assigned to him.
But I learned it.
And for several hours I wished I hadn’t.
Emily Dalton had been beneath the floor of that shed for approximately five weeks.
The medical examiner believed she had died from blunt-force trauma to the head.
The concrete above her was less than four inches thick.
Greg had not buried her deeply.
He had buried her quickly.
The discovery transformed the case from suspected abuse into homicide.
But it still did not explain Leo’s infection.
That answer came from the laboratory the following morning.
The larvae removed from Leo’s face were genetically consistent with specimens collected from Greg’s shed.
Not similar.
Consistent.
The probability of accidental exposure dropped dramatically.
Someone had placed them there.
And the broken needle suggested how.
Detective Martinez returned to St. Catherine’s carrying photographs, warrants, and the exhausted expression of someone who had not slept.
“Greg’s story keeps changing,” she told me.
“What is he saying now?”
“That Leo sneaked into the shed and contaminated himself.”
“With a needle?”
“He says the kid was playing with veterinary syringes.”
“Leo told us Greg locked him inside.”
“I know.”
“And his mother?”
“Greg denies killing her.”
“Of course.”
“He says she fell during an argument.”
“And then he accidentally buried her under concrete?”
Martinez gave me a tired look.
“Apparently.”
I sat back.
“What was he doing with the larvae?”
“That’s the part we’re still building.”
The evidence was grotesque but not supernatural.
Greg had spent months purchasing injured or sick animals cheaply through online postings.
He claimed to “rehabilitate” them.
Instead, investigators believed he had been experimenting with untreated larvae and damaged tissue, attempting to create online shock videos for anonymous channels specializing in disturbing content.
He filmed animals.
He filmed infections.
He filmed himself opening wounds.
Police found tripods.
Lights.
Hard drives.
Anonymous payment accounts.
The shed had not been a hobby room.
It had been a studio.
And Leo had discovered it.
Martinez pushed a printed photograph toward me.
A small action camera was mounted inside one of the cages.
“You think he filmed Leo?”
“We found a deleted folder with his name.”
My stomach turned.
“Have you opened it?”
“Digital forensics is recovering it.”
I looked through the window into Leo’s room.
He was sitting cross-legged in bed, building a plastic model airplane a volunteer had brought him.
His bandage had been reduced.
His swelling was already improving.
Maya sat beside him pretending not to help.
“He knows his mother is missing,” I said.
“Yes.”
“He keeps asking when she’s coming.”
“I know.”
“How do you tell a child that?”
“Carefully.”
There was no good version.
That afternoon, child psychologist Dr. Evelyn Brooks arrived.
She was gentle without being falsely cheerful.
She spent nearly an hour speaking to Leo before she told him.
I did not stay in the room.
I stood outside with Maya.
Through the glass, I saw Brooks take Leo’s hand.
Then I saw Leo stop moving.
No dramatic scream.
No collapse.
He simply became very still.
Children sometimes react to impossible pain by becoming quiet because their bodies cannot decide what else to do.
A minute later, he whispered something.
Brooks answered.
Then his face crumpled.
Maya turned away.
I didn’t.
Leo slid under the blanket and curled into a ball.
When Brooks came out twenty minutes later, her eyes were wet.
“He asked whether his mom knew he didn’t mean to leave her alone.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did you say?”
“That she knew he loved her.”
Brooks looked at me.
“He also asked whether Greg killed her because Leo opened the freezer.”
There are sentences that should never come from a child’s mouth.
That was one of them.
“Does he think it’s his fault?”
“Yes.”
“How do we change that?”
“Time. Safety. Repetition. People who don’t disappear.”
That evening, I sat beside Leo while he picked at mashed potatoes.
“Dr. Morgan?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you ever lose your mom?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know.”
“No.”
He looked surprised.
Adults had probably spent days telling him they understood.
I wasn’t going to pretend.
“I don’t know what this feels like,” I said. “But I can sit here while it feels terrible.”
He thought about that.
Then nodded.
We sat quietly.
Five minutes later, he pushed the tray away.
“Greg said nobody would believe me.”
“I believe you.”
“He said doctors wouldn’t.”
“He was wrong.”
“He said he could make it look like I got sick by myself.”
My attention sharpened.
“What do you mean?”
Leo rubbed his thumb against the edge of the blanket.
“He said if I told anybody about Mom, he’d make me sick.”
“How?”
“He showed me the syringe.”
The room seemed to narrow.
“What happened after that?”
“He made me lie down.”
“Where?”
“In the shed.”
“Did he inject your face?”
Leo nodded.
“How many times?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Leo’s eyes emptied.
“He said it would take a while.”
A cold anger spread through me.
“Take a while for what?”
“For me to stop being a problem.”
I stood so fast my chair scraped the floor.
Not because I was angry at Leo.
Because I suddenly understood.
Greg had not caused the infestation merely to scare him.
He had expected it to worsen.
Perhaps spread.
Perhaps become life-threatening.
And he had waited before seeking care.
“What made him finally bring you here?”
Leo frowned.
“I fainted.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“At home?”
“Yes.”
“Then he brought you?”
“Not right away.”
My skin prickled.
“What did he do first?”
“He put me in the bathtub.”
“Why?”
“He kept saying, ‘Wake up.’”
Greg had not intended to save Leo.
He had panicked when the boy collapsed.
He had brought him to the emergency department because a dead child inside his house would have drawn immediate attention.
He wanted antibiotics because antibiotics offered a convenient story.
An infection.
A spider bite.
Bad luck.
Then I had touched Leo’s face.
Something moved.
And Greg realized the lie was about to fall apart.
My phone rang.
Martinez.
“We recovered part of the deleted video.”
My mouth went dry.
“What does it show?”
“Greg.”
A pause.
“And Leo.”
“Doing what?”
“You need to prepare yourself.”
I stepped into the hall.
“Tell me.”
“The camera was already recording when Greg brought Leo into the shed.”
I gripped the phone.
“We can see him restraining the boy.”
My eyes closed.
“We can see the syringe.”
“Is that enough to charge him?”
“It’s enough for attempted murder.”
I exhaled.
Then Martinez said, “Claire, there’s more.”
“What?”
“Someone else enters the shed.”
I opened my eyes.
“Who?”
“We don’t know yet.”
May you like
“What do they do?”
“They help him.”
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