Chloe screamed with everything she had in her lungs. It was a raw, primal sound of absolute terror that shattered the quiet atmosphere of the aircraft cabin around me.
However, Gertrude was not standing on that driveway alone. Standing mere feet behind her was my wife, Samantha.
Samantha was not intervening or trying to stop her mother at all. Instead, Samantha was holding her smartphone up with the camera flash fully engaged.
She was recording the whole attack, and she was smiling calmly.
Surrounding them to form a sickening, predatory circle were Samantha’s three younger sisters, named Valerie, Brenda, and Jacqueline. They were moving slowly around my terrified child as if they were staging some twisted, sadistic ritual in the dark. Brenda was gripping a heavy red plastic gasoline can in her right hand. Valerie was holding a large bottle of industrial dish soap. Jacqueline was laughing with such intense energy that she had to brace her hand against Samantha’s shoulder to keep from falling over onto the grass.
Then, Brenda casually tipped the long nozzle of the red plastic container down toward the ground.