Part 2His Needle Made Them Sleeping Beauties

But against the tidal wave of public panic, her entitlement meant nothing. It only fueled the fire.

"Shut up, lady! Your kid stabbed someone!"

"That’s a biohazard! That kills people!"

"I saw it! He was kicking the seat and then he attacked her. That kid is a psychopath!"

The theater manager burst in, flanked by security guards, sweating profusely.

"What is going on? Everyone, please, remain calm!"

I kept my hand over the wound on my neck and walked straight up to the manager. I pulled my hand away to show him the blood.

"That child used that needle to puncture my carotid artery area. I have reason to believe it is medical waste carrying a high-risk virus," I said, my voice trembling but my logic razor-sharp. "I am demanding you lock down this theater. Detain them."

"Call the police. Call an ambulance. And get the CDC involved."

The manager looked at the needle on the floor, then at the blood on my neck. All color drained from his face. He knew that if this was mishandled, his theater—and his career—was over.

"Cover that object! Don't touch it!" he barked at security. "And keep those two here. Nobody leaves."

Realizing she was trapped, the woman, Vanessa, dropped to the floor in a full-blown tantrum.

"Help! Security is assaulting us!" she screamed, kicking her legs. "Is there no law in this country? You’re bullying a woman and a child! Do you know who my husband is?"

"My husband is Conrad Hughes! You touch me and he’ll destroy you!"

Conrad Hughes.

The manager flinched. The name clearly rang a bell.

But the crowd didn't care about local celebrities.

"I don't care if your husband is the President!" someone shouted. "Attempted murder is attempted murder!"

"Record her! Put this on TikTok! Expose them!"

Dozens of phones were aimed at her like weapons. Flashes popped. Vanessa panicked, trying to shield her face and swat at the cameras.

"Stop filming! You don't have my permission! Put the phones down!"

It was anarchy.

I stood off to the side, the burning sensation in my neck spreading. The phantom feeling of a virus coursing through my veins made me shudder. But I had to hold it together.

I focused on the needle.

It wasn't a sewing needle. It wasn't even a standard syringe. The gauge was thick, and the barrel had specific blue graduation lines. It looked industrial. Or experimental.

I was a bio-major back in college. I knew lab equipment. That device didn't belong in a sewing kit. It belonged in a bio-waste bin.

She was lying. And judging by the sweat on her brow, she was terrified.

Ten minutes later, the sirens wailed outside.

Police officers pushed through the crowd. An older officer, Detective Miller, took charge.

"Who called it in? What’s the situation?"

I stepped forward and gave my statement, keeping it clinical.

Miller put on gloves and crouched over the needle. He sealed it in an evidence bag, examining the residue inside the barrel. His brow furrowed.

"This isn't a sewing needle," Miller said, his voice carrying through the quiet room. "This is a large-bore biopsy or aspiration needle. Veterinary or... specialized use."

His words hit Vanessa like a physical blow. Her "sewing needle" defense evaporated instantly.

"Veterinary?" She stammered, sweat beading on her forehead. "No! I... I bought it at a flea market! For crafts!"