Chapter 4

4: 4

Before the hearing started, Dad stopped me in the hallway.

"Once you're inside, only answer what they ask you. Don't say anything extra."

Mom straightened Ryan's collar, then turned back to me.

"Your dad's suing the school for your sake too. Once the settlement comes through, we can fix your foot and move into a bigger place. Then you and Ryan will each have your own room."

"Will I get my old room back?"

Her hands paused.

"Ryan can't be left alone right now. Just be understanding for a little while, okay?"

A staff member called our names.

Dad immediately took Ryan's hand, and I followed behind on my crutches.

The conference room had three rows of tables.

The school, the parents, and the investigators each sat on one side, with the accident registration form set beside Steve.

When it was Dad's turn to speak, he spread out the materials he'd prepared, one page at a time.

"As a volunteer parent, I was counting students on the other bus the whole time. My daughter switched to that bus on her own, without permission, and the school neither noticed nor reported it in time."

The school's head of department stood to rebut him.

"Mr. Norris updated the headcount before departure. His phone was destroyed in the accident, so we can't provide the original record at the moment."

"Without proof, anyone can say anything."

Dad pointed at me.

"The child herself admits she switched buses on a whim, to keep her brother company."

The chair looked over at me.

"Celine Fox, is that true?"

Under the table, Mom gripped my wrist.

The day my uncle died, she held Ryan and cried all night.

After that, she used to say we should look after Ryan a little more, so my uncle could rest easy up in heaven.

I used to believe that if I just helped Ryan grow up, Mom and Dad would see me again too.

"I never admitted that."

Mom's grip tightened, bit by bit.

"Dad sent me the license plate of that bus and told me to go over and look after Ryan."

Dad handed his phone to the chair.

"There's no such photo in my album. The child inhaled heavy smoke, so her memory is off. The doctors mentioned that this could happen."

"The photo might be on my phone-watch."

The technician stood up from the back row.

"The phone-watch's storage chip is already damaged. We haven't been able to recover it yet."

Dad let out a breath.

The technician went on:

"But today's verification doesn't rely on the phone-watch alone."

He connected his laptop to the projector.

Three files appeared on the screen.

The first was the data log from the red distress beacon on that bus.

The second was the radio recording from the rescue dispatch desk at the accident site.

The third was the vehicle status slip confirmed by the volunteer parent at the time.

"The red distress beacon was pressed seven times. Each press, the device saves the audio inside the bus and the intercom traffic for thirty seconds before and after." The technician said, "The onboard timecodes, the chip's data checksums, and the on-site rescue logs have all been cross-checked."

Dad stood up at once.

"A broken emergency light—how can that count as evidence? Who can guarantee the audio inside it hasn't been altered?"

The technician pulled up a string of data.

"Every recording has an original checksum. Alter a single byte, and it leaves a trace."

Steve opened the rescue log.

"Mr. Fox, we need to confirm a few things."

Dad didn't sit down.

"Confirm what?"

"At three thirty-five in the afternoon, the distress beacon on that bus was pressed for the fifth time. Someone inside said over the intercom that she was still in the back row."

Steve looked up.

"Three minutes later, at the rescue diversion point, you confirmed that the bus was already empty."

The room went quiet.

Dad's face changed.

"At the time I was helping move the injured. People asked me things, and I answered."

"At three forty-two in the afternoon, the red distress beacon was pressed for the seventh time." Steve said, "Celine Fox was still on the bus then."

Ryan hugged his dinosaur backpack tighter and lowered his head.

Mom suddenly stood up.

"Celine's still a child. Don't make her listen to any more of this. Let us take her out first."

"I want to listen."

I laid my crutches across my legs and didn't move.

The chair nodded.

"Play the first clip."

The laptop connected to that cracked red light.

A time stamp popped up on the screen.

15:21:06.

The speaker first gave off the sound of rolling rock.

Then came Ryan crying, and my own voice, steadily comforting him.

A few seconds later, Dad's voice cut through the static, clear and unmistakable.

"Celine, watch your brother in the back row, and don't let go of him."