Chapter 3 - The RecordingThe photograph sat between us on the table.
Ethan Cole.
Alive in a picture.
Dead in every record I had ever seen.
An agent asked me again.
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
I stared at the photograph.
“My past.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No.”
I looked toward the windows.
“But it's the only one you're getting until my daughter is safe.”
The agent studied me.
Then nodded.
Fair enough.
Emily sat across from me wrapped in a blanket.
Her bruised cheek was beginning to swell more.
A medic knelt beside her.
She kept asking the same question.
“Are they going to make me go back?”
“No.”
I said it before anyone else could.
“They won't.”
Her eyes met mine.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
Then one of the agents placed Emily's phone on the table.
The recording was still intact.
Forty-three minutes.
We listened.
At first, there was only music.
The Easter playlist.
Then footsteps.
Michael's voice.
“You signed it.”
Emily replied:
“I told you I need to read it first.”
“You don't need to read anything.”
“I won't sign it.”
A sound.
A slap.
Emily gasped.
Michael's voice became quieter.
“You think your father will save you?”
Silence.
“He doesn't even know what you married into.”
Another sound.
Furniture moving.
Then Victoria's voice.
“You're making this much harder than it needs to be.”
Emily said:
“I want a divorce.”
Everything stopped.
Michael's next words were almost a whisper.
“You're not leaving.”
The recording continued.
Victoria stepped closer.
“If she goes to the police…”
Michael interrupted.
“She won't.”
“Why not?”
“Because Daniel already handled that.”
Then the room fell silent.
Chief Daniel Brooks.
Complicity.
Recorded.
Documented.
Undeniable.
The agent paused the audio.
“We'll preserve it.”
Emily stared at the phone.
“There's more.”
“What?”
She hesitated.
“Keep playing.”
The recording continued.
Michael said:
“We need her to sign before Monday.”
Victoria replied:
“And if she refuses?”
“Then we make the diagnosis look real.”
Emily's breathing stopped.
The agent looked at me.
I felt something cold move through my chest.
“What diagnosis?”
Emily looked down.
“They wanted me declared mentally unstable.”
The recording continued.
Michael:
“The doctor is already paid.”
Victoria:
“Dr. Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“And the medication?”
“Already in the bathroom.”
My fists clenched.
They had planned everything.
A doctor's report.
Medication.
Legal papers.
Police cooperation.
Witnesses at the party.
Even the lie that Emily was unstable.
It wasn't domestic violence anymore.
It was a system.
Built around her.
Then the recording captured another voice.
A man's voice.
Older.
Calm.
Unknown.
“What about Arthur?”
Michael replied:
“He'll come.”
The stranger laughed.
“He always does.”
I stared at the phone.
The voice sounded familiar.
Not from recent years.
From much earlier.
The agent rewound it.
Again.
The stranger:
“He'll come.”
Again.
I knew that voice.
My hands went cold.
“Who is that?” the agent asked.
I stood.
“I know him.”
“Who?”
I closed my eyes.
“Ethan.”
Emily looked at me.
“You said he was dead.”
“He was supposed to be.”
The room went quiet.
Then the phone rang.
Unknown number.
Everyone looked at me.
I answered.
“Arthur Collins.”
A familiar voice said:
“You should have stayed retired.”
I didn't breathe.
“Ethan.”
He laughed softly.
“Hello, old friend.”
“Where are you?”
“Close.”
“Did you arrange this?”
“I arranged nothing.”
“Michael.”
“He's only a piece.”
“What do you want?”
Ethan was silent for several seconds.
Then:
“You still have the case?”
My eyes moved toward the truck outside.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“What is it?”
“Everything you thought you buried.”
My throat tightened.
“Why Emily?”
“She found something.”
“What?”
“You'll know soon.”
“Ethan, if you touch my daughter—”
He interrupted.
“I never touched her.”
“Then who did?”
A pause.
Then:
“Ask her about the basement.”
The line went dead.
I turned toward Emily.
She looked terrified.
“You've been in the basement?”
She didn't answer.
“Emily.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
“What did you see?”
She whispered:
“People.”
“How many?”
“I don't know.”
“Alive?”
She nodded.
“Some.”
My heart dropped.
“Some?”
Emily looked at the agents.
“They weren't supposed to be there.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were locked in rooms.”
The room became completely silent.
“Like prisoners.”
I stared at her.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because Michael showed me a video.”
“What video?”
He had filmed a man standing outside my old house.
My house.
My driveway.
My truck.
My front door.
Michael had told Emily:
“If you tell your father anything, you'll give him a reason to come back.”
A reason to come back.
A threat disguised as a warning.
I suddenly understood.
Michael had never been afraid of me.
He had been counting on me.
Counting on my instincts.
Counting on me to come.
Because my arrival would trigger something.
A trap.
I looked at the agent.
“Seal the mansion.”
He nodded.
“Already done.”
“Search the basement.”
He paused.
“Why?”
I looked at Emily.
“Because that's where the real evidence is.”
Then the lights went out.
Every light in the mansion.
Emergency lights flickered red.
A scream came from upstairs.
An agent shouted:
“Security breach!”
Gunfire cracked outside.
Emily grabbed my arm.
“Dad!”
I turned.
A message had appeared on the dead phone screen.
May you like
One sentence.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LOOKED UNDER THE FLOOR.
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