The Murder Plot by My Side

As the mobile phone vibrated wildly in the desk drawer, I sat in front of the computer, cross-checking the quarterly report. My finger hovered over the Enter key, the urgent ringing piercing my ear like a needle. I hastily pulled open the drawer, and the four words flashing on the screen—"The nanny at home"—made my heart skip a beat. The moment I pressed answer, the nanny Jennifer Lawrence's voice broke through, choked with sobs: "Ms. Lowell! Oscar, he—he's having a seizure! His face is flushed bright red, and no matter how we call him, there's no response!" "What?" The pen in my hand fell with a soft pop onto the keyboard; the cold plastic sensation spread along my fingertips. "Hurry back! I've already called 911, but the ambulance says it won't arrive for another twenty minutes!" Jennifer Lawrence's voice was mingled with Oscar's faint whimpers. I grabbed the coat from the back of the chair and rushed toward the elevator in my high heels, my mind filled with the image of Oscar this morning as he left the house. He was wearing blue bear pajamas, hugging my leg and asking for strawberry cake. I even touched his forehead—there was definitely no fever. The elevator numbers ticked up slowly, each second stretching out like an eternity. I pulled out my mobile phone to call my husband, Leonard Jackson, but the receiver only gave a cold busy signal. He said last night he was going to a neighboring city to discuss a project; now he might still be on the highway. The taxi sped along the road, the street scenes outside the window blurring into a wash of light and shadow. I clutched the phone, my nails digging deep into my palm, silently repeating over and over, "Oscar is all right." Finally, I arrived at the apartment complex. After paying, I ran toward the building entrance. The motion-activated lights in the corridor sprang to life with the sound of my footsteps, flickering on and off floor by floor. The moment I pushed open the door, a wave of heat hit me in the face. I instinctively raised my hand to wipe the sweat from my forehead. The thermometer in the living room read 46 degrees; even the plastic casing felt hot to the touch. Jennifer Lawrence crouched beside the sofa holding Oscar. The child's eyes were tightly shut, his limbs twitching occasionally, lips dry and peeling. "Why aren't you turning on the air conditioner?" I rushed over and grabbed Oscar; his skin was terrifyingly hot, like a red-hot iron. Jennifer Lawrence shrank back slightly, her voice timid: "I—I have a cold body constitution. When the air conditioner is on, my joints ache. I thought, since Oscar was dressed less, he'd be fine..." "Cold body constitution?" I looked at her in disbelief. "A room temperature of 46 degrees, and you let a three-year-old stay in that?" Oscar's body suddenly convulsed violently; holding his arm, I could distinctly feel the spasms in his muscles. "Why hasn't the ambulance arrived yet?" I shouted at Jennifer Lawrence, my voice hoarse with fear. Just then, the sound of the ambulance siren came from outside the door. I grabbed Oscar and rushed out, not even glancing back at Jennifer Lawrence. In the hospital emergency room, the red light flickered on and off. When the doctor came out, his expression was solemn: "The child has brain edema caused by a febrile convulsion. The situation is critical, and he needs to be admitted to the ICU immediately." "ICU？" My legs buckled, and I almost fell, but a nearby nurse caught me just in time. "The family must first sign the critical condition notice. We will do everything we can to save him." The doctor handed me a piece of paper; the words seemed to crawl into my eyes like ants, blurred and unclear. I trembled as I signed my name, watching the nurse wheel Oscar into the intensive care unit. The moment that door closed, my world seemed to collapse. I sat on the chair in the corridor, tears silently streaming down my face, when my phone finally rang—it was Leonard Jackson calling. "Sabrina, did you call me? I was just in a meeting, and the signal was poor." His voice carried a hint of exhaustion. "Oscar has been admitted to the ICU." I choked on the words, each one feeling like swallowing shards of glass. "What? What happened?" Leonard's voice instantly sharpened. "The room temperature was 46 degrees; Jennifer Lawrence, due to a cold body constitution, refused to turn on the air conditioner, and Oscar's febrile convulsion caused brain edema." I gripped my mobile phone tightly, my knuckles turning white.