Chapter 57 The Recording

Chapter 57 The Recording
Detective Harris's POV

I was becoming impatient with the whole dragging of a thing.

Right now, I just wish I could use a shovel to bring out words from this woman's mouth.

I folded my arms and looked at her for a long second. I was trying to be calm, but I was also tired of dancing around the same circle.

“You said you have evidence,” I said slowly. “So where is it?”

Again, she didn’t answer. She just stared at the floor like the tiles were suddenly more interesting than me.

I sighed without thinking. “Young lady, you need to speak up if you want us to help you here.” I didn't even know when the words left my mouth.

It's already too late to take it so I simply didn't bother regretting being too direct with my demands.

Who the hell hoards information when they're the one in trouble? I'm obviously not the one who needs help—she is. So why the hell is she acting like I’m the enemy?

Just before I could think of an answer to my own question, the woman's head suddenly snapped up so fast it almost startled me. “Don’t call me that,” she shot back, voice shaking but sharp.

“My name is not ‘young lady’. It’s Martha. Martha Wind. I have a name. Use it.” She snapped, and the room suddenly went quiet.

Even Paris shifted awkwardly behind me.

I blinked, surprised by her sudden confidence, but I soon brushed off the weird feelings and simply nodded my head once. “You’re right,” I said calmly with a faint smile.

“Martha.” I called her name once, my voice hesitant like I was tasting the icing on a cake.

Then I lowered my tone, softer now, not like a cop interrogating but like a man trying to reach someone standing on the edge and convince him not to jump. “Umm…Martha,” I repeated, slower this time. “You don’t have to be scared. Whatever it is you’re holding onto, whatever you think will explode if you say it out loud, just say it. If you share what you have, I'll only help us to move fast and dig deeper. We don't let anything slide without being touched. You have to trust me.”

She slowly turned toward me, her eyes scanning my face like she was finally beginning to understand everything I’d been trying to say.

I stepped a little closer, still maintaining a careful distance. “Charlie deserves justice, not silence,” I said softly. “And that only happens if you trust me enough to talk.”

She didn't look away, she continued to stare at me, her eyes glossy but not crying yet. “Trust you?” she whispered. “Do you even know who you’re up against?” She asked.

I didn’t hesitate. “No. But I’ll find out.” I sighed, “With your help.” I added.

Martha took a long breath like she was about to jump into cold water. “Mrs. Carter,” she said quietly, squeezing her eyes shut as if she was scared to mention the name.

The way Martha suddenly paused and swallowed hard after mentioning the name made it seem like she regretted deciding to speak—and maybe, at the same time, she simply couldn’t think of a better option than telling the truth.

She eventually continued speaking, and I reached for my notebook to start jotting down details. But the minute I remembered I was here with Paris, I turned and noticed he was already writing things down.

I was used to working alone, so I was always the one who asked the questions, jotted down details, and did the therapist’s job all at the same time.

I had a feeling I might eventually like having Paris by my side. He was useful.

“What's about Mrs. Carter?” I asked calmly with a raised brow.

Martha looked at me, “Well, I know you think she’s just a grieving mother. That’s what everyone sees. It could as well be what she wants everyone to see—the black dresses, soft and tired voice, the sad eyes...whatever. But that woman? She's exactly the opposite of what she claims to be.”

My jaw tightened.

I listened attentively, but I still couldn’t quite grasp what Martha was talking about—or why the hell she was speaking about her mother-in-law like that.

It even felt awkward thinking about it now… that she had been married to Charlie and was currently carrying his child.

None of this felt real. It felt like some badly written fiction—twisted, unbelievable, absurd.

And yet, here we were.

God… what the hell had late Charlie gotten himself into?

I gave her a small nod while still holding her gaze, then I said, “Go on.”

Martha swallowed. “The day Mrs. Charlie came over to confirm who I really was, and if I was truly married to her son, she didn’t just threaten me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked quickly.

She sniffed, “She'd told me that Charlie was a—” Martha suddenly panicked and stopped. It was as if she couldn't say the next word that was supposed to follow.

“Charlie was what?” I asked sharply.

She started to tremble again, “Mrs. Carter told me that Charlie was a…cannibal serial killer and I'm making a mistake staying with him and worst of all…I'm thinking of making babies for him.”

She paused, swallowed hard, and continued, “I was scared, but I didn’t believe her. Then Mrs. Carter suddenly mentioned something that supported her claim—that Charlie was a cannibalistic serial killer.”

“And what was that?” I asked, my patience thinning.

“She said Shenell wasn’t stupid for not carrying his child during their three years of marriage.

And that if I continued acting stubborn and refused to get rid of the pregnancy, she would do it the hard way—for my own sake.”

Martha glanced up at me, fear written all over her face. “Mrs. Carter said… Charlie would feed on my child once he’s born.”

The room fell into a suffocating silence.

As if the words themselves had poisoned the air.

“What?” I didn’t even realize when I snapped.

Martha didn’t hesitate before continuing. “I recorded everything.” She exhaled shakily. “When I became pregnant, I bought a recorder to document every single day of my pregnancy journey. Every morning, afternoon, and night, I’d talk into it, explaining in detail how my day went—whether there were any changes at all.”

She swallowed. “It was fun. Especially when I went for antenatal, and the doctor told me it was a beautiful thing to do—that recording every day would help me remember everything clearly. One day, I’d look back at the recordings and laugh… because maybe by then, what was once a fetus would be standing at the altar, smiling and holding hands with the love of her life.”

Her lips trembled slightly. “That thought made me really happy. So I recorded every single day… three times a day.”