Chapter 9 - The BoxThe brass key opened a safe deposit box.
Bank records showed it had been registered under my father's name.
But there was a problem.
My father had never mentioned it.
Neither had my mother.
Inside the box was a single black folder.
No money.
No jewelry.
No legal documents.
Only photographs.
And one VHS tape.
Yes.
VHS.
Harris stared at it.
“Who still uses these?”
“Apparently my dead father.”
We found an old player at the police station.
The tape began with static.
Then my father's face appeared.
He looked younger than I remembered.
Tired.
Frightened.
He was sitting at a desk.
“If Daniel ever sees this,” he said, “it means something has gone terribly wrong.”
I froze.
Harris leaned forward.
My father continued.
“There is a man named Adrian Vale.”
He held up a photograph.
“He doesn't own what people think he owns.”
He paused.
“He owns people.”
The recording continued.
“My mistake was believing I could walk away.”
I watched him breathe deeply.
“The documents I kept are proof of everything.”
He lifted a folder.
“Money laundering. Bribes. False custody reports. Medical manipulation.”
I frowned.
“Custody reports?”
Harris looked at me.
My father continued.
“Adrian has people inside hospitals, courts, and private evaluation services.”
My stomach dropped.
“That sounds impossible.”
But it wasn't.
Victor Lane.
Elaine Porter.
Melissa.
The pieces shifted.
My father spoke again.
“There is one person I don't trust.”
He looked directly into the camera.
“Melissa.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
Harris looked at me.
My father continued.
“She is younger than me, ambitious, intelligent, and willing to do anything to survive.”
I stared at the screen.
My father's voice became quieter.
“She believes she can control Adrian.”
A pause.
“She cannot.”
The tape ended.
No explanation.
No answer.
Only static.
I sat there for several seconds.
Then Harris's phone rang.
He listened.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“We found the place.”
“Where?”
“An abandoned property owned through one of Victor's shell companies.”
“Emma?”
“Maybe.”
We drove with a tactical unit.
The property was an old house outside the city.
Windows boarded.
Door locked.
No lights.
Police entered.
The rooms were empty.
Then they found the basement.
A chair.
A camera.
Blankets.
Food.
And a wall covered with photographs.
Emma's photographs.
Dozens.
Harris stopped me from entering.
“Stay back.”
I stared through the doorway.
Then I saw one photograph in the center.
Emma smiling.
Taken on her sixth birthday.
Behind it was a note.
She still loves him.
Harris removed it.
“That's not Victor's handwriting.”
“Whose is it?”
We checked the surveillance.
There were fingerprints.
Melissa's.
Victor's.
And someone else's.
Unknown.
Then footsteps sounded above us.
Everyone froze.
A door slammed.
Officers ran upstairs.
A figure escaped through the back.
They chased him into the woods.
A minute later, they returned empty-handed.
But Harris carried something.
A phone.
“Dropped it.”
“Can we unlock it?”
He stared at the screen.
“Yes.”
Because it had already been unlocked.
There was one open message.
From Melissa.
TO ADRIAN:
HE KNOWS ABOUT THE TAPE.
Harris looked at me.
“Adrian Vale.”
I nodded.
“Where is Melissa now?”
Before he could answer, an officer entered.
“We found something else.”
“What?”
“A second room.”
Inside was a desk.
On the desk sat a printer.
Beside it was a stack of freshly printed documents.
The first page had my name.
The second had Emma's.
The third had Melissa's.
And the fourth had a heading:
FINAL CUSTODY STATEMENT.
Harris picked it up.
His face went white.
“What does it say?”
He handed it to me.
I read the first line.
Then stopped.
It was Emma's handwriting.
Six-year-old handwriting.
The statement claimed:
MY DADDY HURTS ME.
I looked at the page.
“That isn't hers.”
“It is,” Harris said quietly.
I shook my head.
“No.”
But then I saw the final sentence.
The letters were uneven.
Childlike.
I am scared of Daddy.
And beneath it was something else.
May you like
A sentence written in an adult hand.
FOR COURT USE ONLY.
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