CHAPTER 2: THE NOTEBOOK
The phone kept ringing upstairs.
Neither of us moved.
My mother stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at the open drawer.
I kept one hand resting on the notebook.
“You weren't supposed to find that.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
I looked at the documents spread across the counter.
“What's this?”
She didn't answer.
I picked up the guardianship petition.
“Why did you file this against Daniel?”
“I didn't file anything.”
“Your name is on it.”
“That doesn't mean what you think it means.”
I laughed once.
It wasn't funny.
“Then explain it.”
She stepped toward me.
I stepped back.
“Give me the notebook.”
“No.”
Her expression changed.
“Listen to me. You don't understand what Daniel is capable of.”
“I understand him better than you do.”
“You haven't lived here.”
“I've visited.”
“That's not the same.”
Her voice sharpened.
“He's becoming dangerous.”
I looked at the bruises I had seen on Daniel's arms.
“Then why were his bruises shaped like fingerprints?”
She went silent.
The ringing upstairs stopped.
A second later, a notification sounded from my pocket.
Daniel.
I pulled out my phone.
A message had appeared from his temporary communication device.
DON'T TRUST MOM.
I stared at the screen.
My mother saw it.
Her face drained of color.
“Daniel sent that?”
I didn't answer.
Another message appeared.
DRAWER IS NOT EMPTY.
I looked at the open drawer.
“What does that mean?”
No response.
I looked toward my mother.
She was already moving.
Fast.
She reached for the drawer.
I grabbed her wrist.
She froze.
“Don't.”
“You're frightening me.”
“Good.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You've always been dramatic.”
“And you've always been good at making everyone think they're imagining things.”
Her face tightened.
“What exactly are you accusing me of?”
“I don't know yet.”
I pulled the notebook toward me.
“But I'm going to find out.”
I opened it again.
The handwriting was my mother's.
I recognized it immediately.
The first pages contained dates.
The first entry was three months old.
January 14.
Daniel became agitated during dinner.
The next line:
Mark provoked him.
I stopped breathing.
I flipped the page.
January 21.
Raised voice.
Recorded reaction.
Doctor contacted.
Next page.
February 2.
Daniel refused medication.
Need video evidence of instability.
I looked up.
“What's this?”
My mother didn't respond.
I kept reading.
February 11.
Mark will create confrontation.
Daniel must react.
Record only final thirty seconds.
My stomach twisted.
I turned the page.
February 19.
If he breaks something, call emergency services.
Make sure recording starts afterward.
Then another.
March 4.
Doctor says repeated episodes could support guardianship.
Then, beneath it:
Need one more serious incident.
I stared at those words.
One more.
The exact phrase my mother had used downstairs.
I flipped ahead.
The final entry was dated yesterday.
Tomorrow.
Mark will corner him near kitchen.
No witnesses.
Do not interfere.
Record.
I stopped.
My fingers went numb.
“Mom.”
She said nothing.
“Yesterday?”
Still nothing.
“You planned what happened to Daniel.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
But something about them felt wrong.
Too immediate.
Too rehearsed.
“I was trying to protect him.”
“From what?”
“From himself.”
“You wrote that Mark would corner him.”
She shook her head.
“You don't understand.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“No, you don't.”
She suddenly grabbed the notebook.
I pulled it away.
“Give it to me!”
Her voice echoed through the kitchen.
I had never heard her sound like that.
Not angry.
Desperate.
I stepped backward.
Then I noticed something.
The pages had been torn near the back.
Several pages were missing.
“Where are the rest?”
My mother stared at me.
“What?”
“The missing pages.”
“I don't know.”
“You wrote this.”
“No.”
She said it too quickly.
I stared at her.
Then she made a mistake.
A tiny one.
She looked toward the hallway.
Not the front door.
Not the stairs.
The hallway.
I followed her gaze.
There was a narrow door beside the laundry room.
I'd never seen it open.
“What's in there?”
“Nothing.”
I walked toward it.
“Don't.”
I stopped.
She had said it again.
That word.
Don't.
Exactly like Daniel.
I turned around.
“Why are you afraid of that room?”
She didn't answer.
I opened the door.
A narrow staircase descended into darkness.
I switched on the light.
The bulb flickered.
At the bottom was a storage room.
Boxes covered the walls.
Old photographs.
Medical records.
Tax documents.
And one metal filing cabinet.
The cabinet had a lock.
I looked at my mother's face.
She whispered:
“Please.”
That was when I knew.
Whatever was inside mattered more than anything I'd found upstairs.
I opened the cabinet.
The first folder contained medical records.
My father's.
I hadn't seen them since his death.
His name was printed across the first page.
David.
My father.
I flipped through the records.
Hospital admissions.
Medication lists.
Blood tests.
Then I found something strange.
A toxicology report.
I read the date.
Three days before Dad died.
The report showed abnormal levels of medication in his bloodstream.
Far higher than prescribed.
I stared at the page.
Dad hadn't overdosed.
At least, nobody had ever told me that.
The official explanation had been cardiac complications.
I kept reading.
The report contained a handwritten note.
Possible repeated exposure.
I looked up.
My mother was standing at the bottom of the stairs.
She looked terrified.
“Where did you get that?”
I held up the report.
“Why was this hidden?”
She shook her head.
“Put it back.”
“Dad was poisoned.”
“No.”
“The toxicology report says—”
“He was sick.”
“Then why did you hide this?”
“He was dying anyway.”
The words came out before she could stop them.
Silence.
I stared at her.
She stared back.
Then she realized what she'd just said.
I slowly stepped closer.
“You knew.”
She backed away.
“I didn't kill your father.”
“I didn't ask if you killed him.”
Her face went pale.
“You knew.”
She looked toward the stairs.
Then toward the door.
And finally at me.
“I loved your father.”
“Then why are you hiding his toxicology report?”
She said nothing.
My phone vibrated.
Another message from Daniel.
I opened it.
There was a photograph.
A photograph of my father in his hospital room.
He was lying unconscious in bed.
But that wasn't what made my blood run cold.
Standing beside him was Mark.
My mother's boyfriend.
I zoomed in.
His face was younger.
His hair was darker.
But there was no doubt.
It was him.
I looked at my mother.
“Why was Mark with Dad?”
She closed her eyes.
“Because he worked at the hospital.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“He was a nurse.”
I looked back at the photograph.
A nurse's badge was visible on his chest.
But there was something written beneath the picture.
A message from Daniel.
I enlarged it.
Six words.
HE CALLED HIMSELF DOCTOR THEN.
I stared at the screen.
Mark wasn't just Mom's boyfriend.
He had been inside the hospital the night Dad died.
And suddenly every strange detail began falling into place.
The locked drawer.
The guardianship papers.
The insurance policy.
The staged incidents.
The notebook.
Dad's toxicology report.
Mark's presence beside Dad's hospital bed.
Then my phone rang.
The caller ID made my blood run cold.
It was the hospital.
I answered.
A man's voice spoke quietly.
“Are you David's son?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause.
“We need to speak with you immediately.”
“About my father?”
“No.”
The man lowered his voice.
“About your brother.”
I gripped the phone.
“What happened to Daniel?”
“He's gone.”
My entire body went cold.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“The room was empty.”
“He couldn't have left. He's at the hospital.”
“We know.”
“Then where is he?”
Another pause.
Then the man said:
“Your mother signed him out forty minutes ago.”
I looked toward the kitchen.
The back door was still open.
My mother was gone.
And so was the car.
Then I noticed something on the floor beneath the table.
Daniel's broken glasses.
Beside them was a tiny piece of paper.
I picked it up.
There was only one sentence.
IF THEY TAKE ME, FIND DAD'S ORIGINAL FILE.
I looked at the stairs.
Then at the empty doorway.
And for the first time, I realized something much worse than my mother hiding a secret.
Daniel had known this was coming.
He had been preparing for it.
May you like
And whatever was inside Dad's original file...
Someone was desperate to make sure I never found it.
