Sold My Daughter’s Death for Blood Money / Chapter 1: The River and the Settlement
Sold My Daughter’s Death for Blood Money

Sold My Daughter’s Death for Blood Money

Author: Gregory Campos

Chapter 1: The River and the Settlement

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Three months before the SATs, my daughter was pulled from the river. The water was so cold it left her lips blue. I still see it when I close my eyes.

Her whole body was soaked and ghostly pale. Ignoring everyone else's objections, I immediately arranged for her cremation.

The cold fluorescent lights of the funeral home flickered overhead as I signed the forms. The clerk—midwestern, kind-eyed—looked at me for a long moment, waiting for me to break. I wondered if he could smell the panic on me, or if he’d seen this kind of numbness before. But I didn't, just asked if I could have an extra copy of the death certificate. I shoved it in my jacket pocket. The edges bit into my chest every time I moved, a reminder that felt sharper than grief.

But the police still came to my door, holding a video of bullying. "Your daughter didn't take her own life because of academic pressure at all."

The detective wore a worn-out windbreaker, a tired expression behind his glasses. He set the flash drive gently on my kitchen counter, next to the half-eaten apple and pile of unopened bills. His partner hovered awkwardly, like they weren't sure if they should offer me a tissue or just stand there and wait. I didn’t offer them coffee. I didn’t want them staying long enough to notice the pile of takeout containers in the sink.

In court, I signed the settlement agreement without a flicker of emotion.

The other girl's mother sobbed and cursed at me: "Only $30,000, and you sold your daughter. Are you even human?"

She was wearing a navy pantsuit, hair done up too neat for the occasion. Her voice cracked with every word, mascara running in streaks down her cheeks. The judge tried to calm her, but the courtroom just pulsed with this electric, suffocating silence. Phones buzzed quietly, someone coughed, and the judge’s gavel sounded like thunder in the stillness.

Facing the contemptuous stares of the crowd, I forced a smirk, like I cared more about the money than anything else. Let them think I was the villain. "She's already gone. We can't let the living suffer too, can we?"

Somebody muttered, "Bastard," just loud enough for me to hear. I didn't flinch. I kept my voice even, my eyes dry, like every cheap soap opera villain they'd already made me out to be.

Three days before the SATs, three girls vanished without a trace.

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