Blood in the Frosting Chapter 1

My wife was just holding our baby son, dropping our daughter off at school. That was all she was doing before a speeding sports car tore through the crosswalk and shattered our world.

My infant son’s tiny body was thrown against the car's shattered windshield. The driver stepped out, casually pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He pointed at my boy’s mangled, lifeless form and smiled. It was the smile of the devil himself.

Later, the police would tell me that for a vehicular manslaughter charge like this, considering his clean record, the absolute maximum sentence was seven years.

Later, the driver’s father would come to my wife’s bakery to offer a twisted apology, before both father and son vanished from the face of the earth.

…

When I arrived at the school gates, the sirens were already wailing. Sarah was lying on the asphalt. She wasn't breathing. Beside her lay the crushed remains of the birthday cake she had baked that morning.

My months-old son, Noah, hung limply over the hood of the crushed Porsche, like a discarded ragdoll.

Standing by the driver's side door was a man in his early twenties, taking a drag from a cigarette. Suddenly, he pointed at Noah’s body and laughed.

"Hey, doesn't that little doll look like one of those props from an escape room?"

He reached out and tugged at Noah’s tiny jacket. My son’s head lolled unnaturally to the side.

The man giggled. The bystanders gasped, a collective sound of pure horror.

A primal roar ripped from my throat. I lunged at him, swinging my fists, but the sheer weight of the crowd held me back.

The man flicked his cigarette onto the pavement and looked at me with bored disdain.

"Just spit it out," he said, rolling his eyes. "How many millions do you want? Let's do the math. One woman, one infant." He paused, tapping his chin in mock thought. "Oh, wait, I think I clipped a little girl, too. Nah, she's probably still breathing."

I fell to my knees beside Sarah’s body. My hands balled into fists so tight my fingernails pierced my palms.

The man sauntered over and casually nudged Sarah’s lifeless hand with the toe of his designer sneaker.

"Hey. Give me a number. I don't have all day to waste on you people."

I slowly lifted my head, meeting the eyes of this arrogant, empty shell of a human being. I ground my teeth together so hard my jaw ached.

"What if I say," I whispered, my voice trembling with a dark, unfamiliar gravity, "that I want you dead?"

The man threw his head back and laughed. He pulled out his phone, dialed a number, and put it on speaker.

A crisp, professional voice echoed from the device. "Tristan, given the circumstances, you're looking at seven years maximum, likely less with a plea. Find out what civil settlement amount the husband needs to sign a victim impact statement asking the DA for leniency."

Tristan hung up. He looked down at me, his eyes brimming with absolute contempt.

"Did you hear that? For a working-class loser like you, seven years of wages is pocket change. Name your price, so I can leave when the cops get here."

I didn't answer him. I leaned down, pressed my lips to Sarah’s cooling forehead, and gently folded her hands over her chest. Then, I stood up, channeled every ounce of my shattering soul into my right arm, and shattered his jaw.

We were both taken to the precinct.

"Mr. Hayes, I need you to separate the two incidents. I am incredibly sorry for your loss, but assaulting him means we have to hold you in custody," the booking officer said, his voice heavy with genuine pity. "If there’s anyone you need us to call, we’ll pass the message along."

I stared through the cinderblock wall. "Is it true? That animal who slaughtered my family… seven years max?"

The officer let out a long, defeated sigh. "Mr. Hayes, the system is what it is. With a good defense attorney, for vehicular manslaughter… yes. Seven years is the ceiling."

Seven years. Today was my daughter Lily’s seventh birthday. And in the blink of an eye, she had lost her mother and her baby brother.

This monster would sit in a minimum-security facility for a few years, maybe less on good behavior, and then walk right back into his gilded life.

The rage in my chest felt like swallowing glass. The officer gently patted my shoulder.

"Mr. Hayes… the living have to find a way to keep living."

A knock on the interrogation room door interrupted him. A detective stepped in, followed by a polished man in a tailored suit, early fifties.

"Mr. Hayes. I am Richard Kensington. Tristan’s father."

The man extended a manicured hand. I didn't move. Undeterred, he offered a sad, practiced smile and pulled a heavy cardstock envelope from his breast pocket.

"Mr. Hayes, we are prepared to offer a trust of one million dollars. Consider it compensation for your family. After all, you still have a little girl in the hospital to care for, don't you?"

I stared at the pristine white envelope. All the money in the Federal Reserve couldn't buy back a single breath from Sarah or Noah.

The memory of Tristan’s demonic laugh flashed behind my eyes. I looked up at the father, my voice stripped of all emotion.

"If I give you a million dollars, will you give me back my wife and son?"