Chapter 7 - The Live Broadcast
By two o'clock that afternoon, Preston and his new bride were hosting their exclusive post-wedding press brunch at the Chicago Yacht Club.
The grand dining room was packed with local politicians, judges, and high-society journalists.
Preston sat at the center table, wearing a crisp navy blazer, pretending to look solemn and heartbroken for the cameras.
"My wife and I only want peace for our family," Preston was telling a reporter from the local news network.
"It breaks my heart that my sister's deep-seated jealousy pushed her to use her own daughter in such a horrific way."
"We pray that Evelyn gets the psychiatric help she so desperately needs."
My father stood beside him, nodding solemnly and patting Preston's shoulder in front of the flashing cameras.
Suddenly, the large projection screens mounted around the yacht club's ballroom flickered and went dark.
The soft jazz music playing over the sound system cut out completely.
The reporters lowered their microphones, looking around the room in confusion.
The screens flashed bright blue, and then the crystal-clear security footage from the Whitmore Hotel began to play on a continuous loop.
The entire dining room fell into a stunned, suffocating silence.
The massive screens showed Preston deliberately planting his titanium iPhone into Sophie's jacket pocket.
Then, it zoomed in on his face as he grabbed the heavy oak board and smashed it downward onto my daughter's head.
The violent impact played in slow motion, followed by the sight of my eight-year-old collapsing in a pool of bright red blood.
Gasps of horror and shrieks of disgust erupted from the wealthy guests.
Preston jumped up from his chair, his face contorting into absolute terror.
"Turn that off!" he screamed frantically at the venue staff.
"Turn it off right now!"
Before anyone could reach the control panel, the double glass doors of the yacht club burst open.
A dozen armed federal agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation marched into the dining room.
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Leading them was an Assistant United States Attorney, holding a stack of signed arrest warrants.
"Preston Vance, step away from the table and put your hands behind your back!" the lead agent commanded over a megaphone.
