Thatcher's Death, My Liberation

The sound of the workshop door slamming open jolted me from my work. I looked up from the half-finished necklace I'd been crafting, my hands still stained with metal polish. Thatcher stood in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the light from the hallway. His usually immaculate appearance was disheveled—tie loosened, hair slightly unkempt. Something was wrong.

"Where is she?" His voice cut through the quiet workshop like a blade.

I set down my tools carefully, trying to steady my trembling fingers. "Who?"

"Don't play games with me, Rose." He stepped closer, his expensive cologne filling the small space between us. "Liberty. Where is she?"

I shook my head, genuinely confused. "I haven't seen her since—"

"The last time you saw her was three days ago," he finished for me, his eyes narrowing. "At your little charity event. And then she disappeared."

He moved around my workspace, picking up and examining my designs with casual disregard. One fell to the floor, the delicate metal links scattering across the concrete.

"Thatcher, I don't know where she is," I said quietly. "If she's missing, you should call the police."

He laughed then, a cold sound that made my skin crawl. "The police? That's rich coming from you."

"I'm not hiding her," I insisted, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Why would I?"

His hand slammed down on my workbench, making me flinch. "Because you've always hated her. Because you couldn't stand that she was carrying my child."

I looked away, unable to meet his gaze. The mention of Liberty's pregnancy still felt like a knife twisting in my chest.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he demanded, gripping my chin and forcing me to face him. "You have twenty-four hours to tell me where she is. Or there will be consequences."

"Thatcher, please—"

"Twenty-four hours, Rose." He released me with a slight push and straightened his jacket. "Don't test me on this."

After he left, I sank to the floor, my legs no longer able to support me. What did he mean by consequences? What more could he possibly take from me?

---

The next evening, my phone rang as I was preparing dinner. Thatcher's name flashed on the screen.

"I don't know where she is," I said before he could speak.

"Then you've made your choice." His voice was eerily calm.

"Thatcher, please listen to reason—"

"Dr. Reynolds," he said, apparently addressing someone else. "This is Thatcher Edwards. I need to make a change to Georgia Mitchell's treatment plan."

My blood ran cold. "No! Don't you dare touch her medication!"

"I'm authorizing the immediate cessation of her current treatment protocol," he continued as if I hadn't spoken. "No further doses are to be administered until further notice."

"Stop this!" I screamed into the phone. "She needs that medication to survive!"

"Then you should have thought about that before you decided to hide my pregnant girlfriend." His voice was ice. "Dr. Reynolds, is that understood?"

A pause, then: "Yes, Mr. Edwards. I'll... I'll make the arrangements immediately."

"Thatcher, please," I begged, tears streaming down my face. "Please don't do this. I'll do anything."

"Anything?" he echoed. "Then tell me where Liberty is."

"I don't know!" I cried. "I swear I don't know!"

The line went dead.

---

Three days later, I was working in the garden when I heard a crash from inside the house. I rushed in to find Georgia collapsed on the kitchen floor, her breathing labored, her skin pale and clammy.

"Georgia!" I dropped to my knees beside her. "What's wrong? What happened?"

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused. "Rose... can't... breathe..."

I called 911 with shaking hands, then gathered her in my arms, rocking her gently until the ambulance arrived.

At the hospital, Dr. Margaret Chen met us in the emergency room. Her face was grave as she examined Georgia.

"What happened?" she asked quietly.

"The medication," I choked out. "Thatcher ordered them to stop it."

Dr. Chen's eyes widened in horror. "That's impossible. Without that medication..."

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.

Hours later, after desperate attempts to stabilize her, Dr. Chen led me into a private room.

"Rose," she said gently, "the delay in treatment has caused significant organ damage. We've done everything we can, but..."

"No," I whispered. "No, there must be something else we can try."

Georgia lay in the hospital bed, looking so small and fragile against the white sheets. Her breathing was shallow, each inhale a visible struggle.

"Can I be alone with her?" I asked.

Dr. Chen nodded and quietly left the room.

I took Georgia's hand in mine, feeling how cold it had become.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered, tears falling onto our joined hands. "I'm so, so sorry."

Her eyes opened briefly, finding mine with effort.

"Rose," she breathed, her voice barely audible. "Don't... blame... yourself..."

Her hand went slack in mine as the monitor beside her bed began to wail its terrible warning.

And in that moment, something inside me died alongside my sister.