Freddy’s eyes searched Ray’s face. He seemed to be asking a question he couldn’t voice.
Ray squeezed his hand, firm and reassuring. “Don’t worry about anything. Just focus on getting better. Everything else is handled.”
That night, seventy-two hours after the attack, the first domino fell.
Darren Foster was found unconscious in his Dodge Ram at 11:00 p.m., parked behind the abandoned strip mall on Highway 9. His hands were badly injured—doctors later said the damage was extensive. His right knee was damaged in a way that would require surgery.
There was no bruising on his face. No signs of a struggle. No weapon had been used. The damage was systematic and specific. Foster would recover, but his throwing hand was compromised. His football career was over before it began.
Six hours later, Eric Orozco was discovered in a similar condition at the public park. Unconscious. Hands injured. Knee damaged. The same precise trauma that would heal but leave him permanently unable to play contact sports.
By noon the next day, Benny Gray was found. Then Gary Gaines.
Then Everett Patrick. Ivan Christensen. Colin Marsh.
All seven boys within seventy-two hours. All with identical injuries. All claiming they couldn’t remember a thing. They reported being approached by a shadow, feeling a sudden strike, and then waking up in agony.
None of them could identify their attacker. The police had no DNA, no footprints, no security footage. The boys were terrified. Their parents were outraged. The entire town was buzzing with theories ranging from gang retaliation to a hitman.
Ray spent those three days sitting in a chair next to Freddy. He read books aloud. He chatted with the nurses. He drank terrible coffee.
Detective Platt visited Ray on the morning of day six. He didn’t sit down this time.
“Where were you for the past seventy-two hours?” Platt asked, his voice low.
“Here,” Ray said, not looking up from his book. “With my son. Ask any nurse. Ask Dr. Marsh.”
“I have,” Platt said. “They confirm you barely left his side. You slept in that chair.”
Ray turned a page. “Then I guess I’m not your suspect.”
Platt leaned in, lowering his voice. “Seven boys hospitalized. Identical injuries. Professional work. And you have been sitting here the whole time. In front of witnesses.”
“Sounds like a mystery, Detective.”
“My gut tells me you are involved,” Platt said.
“My son nearly died because seven teenagers decided to beat him unconscious for sport,” Ray replied, finally meeting the detective’s eyes. “Now those same teenagers are injured, and suddenly everyone cares about justice. Interesting how that works.”
Platt stared at him, searching for a crack in the armor. He found none. “The parents are pushing hard. They want answers. They are organizing.”
“I hope they find what they are looking for,” Ray said calmly. “Nobody should get away with violence.”
After Platt left, Ray checked the news on his phone. The “Riverside Seven” was trending locally. Speculation was rampant. But more importantly, the seven angry fathers were communicating, organizing, and looking for a scapegoat.
Ray had expected this. In fact, he had counted on it.
The trap was almost set.
On day seven, Freddy was moved out of the ICU. His skull fracture was knitting together, and the swelling had receded enough for the doctors to declare him out of immediate danger. Ray helped the orderlies move him into a regular room, watching his son grimace with the effort of shifting his weight.
“Dad,” Freddy rasped that evening. His voice was weak, scratchy from the tube. “I heard the nurses talking. Those boys… the ones who hurt me. They said someone got them.”
“They are saying a lot of things,” Ray said, pouring a glass of water.
“They are saying you did it. But you have been here. I saw you.”
Ray smiled gently. “Exactly. I have been right here. Taking care of you. That is all that matters.”
Freddy studied his father’s face. The fog of medication was lifting, and a dawn of understanding was creeping into his eyes. “When I was out… I could hear you sometimes. You promised everything would be okay.”
“It will be.”
“Those guys… they have done this before, Dad,” Freddy whispered. “To other kids. Everyone is too scared to say anything because their families run this town. Darren Foster held me down while the others…” Freddy’s voice cracked, tears welling in his eyes. “They were laughing. They said I was a nobody. That they could do whatever they wanted.”