Chapter 4 - Forty-Eight Hours Before Daisy Died
The recording could not be released to me immediately.
That was probably a good thing.
For the next twenty-four hours, investigators preserved the hospital servers while attorneys argued over access.
I spent those hours planning Daisy’s funeral.
Nothing about burying a three-year-old feels real.
Funeral directors speak gently.
They give you small choices because large ones are impossible.
White flowers or pink?
Closed service or family viewing?
Music?
Photographs?
Did Daisy have a favorite dress?
Every question feels obscene because the real answer is always the same.
She should be wearing pajamas at home.
Not anything chosen for a funeral.
I selected photographs.
Daisy with spaghetti on her cheeks.
Daisy asleep on Dad’s old college sweatshirt I had stolen years ago.
Daisy wearing sunglasses upside down.
Daisy holding a dandelion like it was treasure.
My father sat beside me without speaking.
Then a photograph stopped him.
Daisy was two.
She was laughing at the camera while holding the pink bunny pillow.
Dad touched the edge of the picture.
“She looks like you.”
“You never saw me at that age.”
“I have photographs.”
I looked at him.
“You kept them?”
“A father doesn’t stop having a daughter because she’s angry with him.”
I started crying again.
Grief arrived in strange waves.
Sometimes I could talk about hospital accounts calmly.
Then a photograph of Daisy’s tiny shoes would leave me unable to stand.
That afternoon Arthur called.
“We have preliminary information about the recovered recording.”
Dad and I drove to his office.
Detective Ruiz was there.
So was an assistant district attorney.
That told me the situation had become more serious.
Ruiz began.
“We need you to understand that this is an active investigation. You may hear things that are upsetting.”
“I’ve already buried the worst thing that can happen to me.”
Nobody answered.
Ruiz pressed play.
The recording began with hospital noises.
A monitor.
Airflow.
Fabric moving.
Then Mason’s voice.
Low.
Close.
“Daisy?”
My fingers dug into the chair.
A tiny voice answered.
“Daddy?”
I stopped breathing.
My daughter had been awake.
Mason said, “Hey, peanut.”
I had not heard him call her that in months.
Daisy whispered, “Mommy sleeping.”
“I know.”
A pause.
Then Daisy:
“My medicine coming?”
Mason did not answer immediately.
The silence lasted four seconds.
It felt like an hour.
Finally he said, “You just rest.”
“Tomorrow?”
Another pause.
“Maybe.”
I covered my mouth.
Ruiz stopped the recording.
“Do you want a break?”
“No.”
She continued.
There was movement.
Then Daisy whispered:
“Daddy, don’t go.”
My chest broke open.
Mason’s voice softened.
“I have to.”
“Stay.”
“I can’t.”
Then footsteps.
The door opened.
Another voice entered faintly.
Chloe.
“What happened?”
Mason: “Nothing.”
Chloe: “Is she awake?”
Mason: “Barely.”
Chloe: “You said—”
Mason: “Not here.”
The door closed.
The recording ended.
Nobody in the room spoke.
I stared at the table.
“He knew she was asking about the medicine.”
Ruiz nodded.
“He knew.”
“He looked at her.”
“Yes.”
“He knew she thought it was coming.”
“Yes.”
“And he left.”
The detective said nothing.
There was nothing to say.
Arthur handed me water.
I didn’t drink it.
“Was that all?”
Ruiz exchanged a look with the prosecutor.
“No.”
She placed another document on the table.
“This concerns the compatibility inquiry.”
The request had not come from Chloe.
It had been submitted by Mason.
Using credentials belonging to a physician at the ophthalmology clinic.
Investigators did not yet know whether the physician had authorized access.
The recipient field was coded.
But associated billing records referenced Chloe.
“When did he submit it?”
“Approximately thirty-six hours before Daisy died.”
I closed my eyes.
“What exactly did he ask?”
Ruiz read carefully.
“Whether corneal tissue from a pediatric donor with Daisy’s medical profile could potentially be considered for designated donation.”
My father stood abruptly.
Arthur touched his arm.
“Garrett.”
Dad walked across the room.
I had never seen him so close to losing control.
“He researched using my granddaughter as a donor while she was alive.”
Ruiz answered cautiously.
“That is one interpretation of the document. Investigators are still determining the precise purpose and context.”
Dad laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“Context.”
“We need evidence that survives court,” Arthur said.
Dad looked at him.
“You think I care about court right now?”
“You will tomorrow.”
That stopped him.
Arthur continued.
“If Mason committed crimes, anger won’t prove them. Records will.”
Dad sat down again.
That was when I understood why Arthur had remained my father’s lawyer for twenty-five years.
He was the only person in the room who could tell Garrett Stone what he did not want to hear.
Ruiz continued.
“There’s another development.”
Of course there was.
At that point, every sentence seemed capable of making my life worse.
“We interviewed Chloe Palmer.”
“What did she say?”
“She requested counsel.”
“Meaning?”
“It means nothing by itself.”
I nodded.
“But before counsel arrived, she made one statement.”
Ruiz opened her notebook.
“What?”
“She said, ‘Mason told me Daisy would qualify naturally if the medication failed.’”
I stared at her.
Dad whispered something I didn’t hear.
Arthur went completely still.
“What does that mean legally?” I asked.
The prosecutor answered.
“It means we investigate further.”
That careful answer frustrated me.
I wanted someone to say exactly what I feared.
That Mason had calculated my daughter’s death.
But evidence did not work that way.
Neither did justice.
We left the office after dark.
At Dad’s house, I stood outside my old bedroom and listened to silence.
For three years, my life had never been silent.
Daisy hummed.
Daisy laughed.
Daisy argued with cartoons.
Daisy called me from rooms six feet away.
Now every hallway felt empty.
I picked up her pillow.
It still smelled faintly like her shampoo.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Mason.
I heard they played you the recording.
I stared at it.
Another appeared.
I loved Daisy.
Then:
I went to say goodbye because I knew she was very sick.
And:
Please don’t let your father turn grief into revenge.
I typed three words.
Why did you leave?
He responded almost immediately.
Because I couldn’t watch her die.
My hands shook.
For one second, it almost sounded human.
Then another message arrived.
You know how bad hospitals are for me.
There it was.
Mason.
Even Daisy’s death had to become about Mason.
I forwarded everything to Arthur.
Then a final message appeared.
A photograph.
Mason had sent it accidentally.
Or perhaps intentionally.
It showed a document on a desk.
At the bottom was Chloe’s signature.
Across the top:
DESIGNATED DONATION CONSENT – DRAFT
May you like
The date was one week before Daisy died.
And suddenly Chloe’s claim that she knew nothing about the donor plan looked very different.
