Chapter 8 - The Man in the BarnI ran outside with a flashlight.
The fields were silent.
The barns were dark.
But the west barn door was open.
Mom came after me.
“Charles!”
“Stay inside!”
She ignored me.
We entered together.
The smell of gasoline hit first.
I stopped.
A red fuel container sat beneath the workbench.
Too close to the electrical panel.
Someone had been preparing a fire.
I searched the barn.
Nothing.
Then I heard breathing.
Behind the hayloft.
I climbed the ladder.
A man jumped from behind a stack of feed bags.
I grabbed his jacket.
He struck me across the face.
I hit the floor.
He ran.
I chased him through the loft.
He jumped down, kicked open the side door, and disappeared into the fields.
I ran after him.
Too late.
A black vehicle accelerated toward the county road.
I couldn't read the plate.
But I saw the driver.
Male.
Dark hair.
Gray jacket.
Emma ran toward me.
“Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
I didn't know.
But then I noticed something in the hay.
A wallet.
It had been knocked loose during the struggle.
Inside was a driver's license.
Michael Cross.
I stared at the photograph.
Harold arrived twenty minutes later.
He took one look at the license.
“Private investigator.”
“Richard's?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did he run?”
Harold picked up the fuel container.
“Because he wasn't here to investigate.”
“What was he doing?”
“Cleaning up.”
The word settled over us.
Cleaning up.
Whatever Richard feared we would discover had become dangerous enough to destroy.
Harold called the fire department.
Then he contacted county investigators.
We documented everything.
No one touched the barn.
Except to secure it.
At dawn, Emma arrived with a laptop.
“I found Michael Cross.”
“Where?”
“He worked for Richard for six years.”
“Did you find his address?”
“Yes.”
But before we could leave, another message came in.
From an unknown number.
Stop digging.
I showed it to Harold.
A second message followed.
Your mother won't be safe forever.
I called the number.
It rang once.
Then disconnected.
Emma's face had gone pale.
“I think they know we have the wallet.”
Harold nodded.
“Then we need to move faster.”
We drove to Michael Cross's registered address.
The apartment had been abandoned.
The landlord said Michael hadn't returned for three days.
Inside, we found almost nothing.
Except photographs.
Hundreds of them.
Willowbrook.
My mother.
Me.
My father.
And Stephanie.
Then we found a second folder.
VIDEO SURVEILLANCE.
Inside were recordings from our farmhouse.
Kitchen.
Driveway.
Barn.
Living room.
My blood ran cold.
They had cameras inside my home.
I opened one file.
Mom sat at the kitchen table speaking with Stephanie.
The recording date was six months earlier.
Stephanie was smiling.
“Margaret, Charles wants us to make a change after the wedding.”
Mom looked confused.
“What kind of change?”
“Moving you closer to town.”
“I don't want to leave Willowbrook.”
“I know.”
Stephanie reached across the table.
“It would only be temporary.”
Mom shook her head.
“Why?”
Stephanie smiled.
“For your safety.”
I closed the file.
That was the phrase.
Safety.
The word they were using to turn imprisonment into care.
Harold found another recording.
This one was worse.
It showed Richard inside our farmhouse.
Alone.
At 1:14 a.m.
He walked directly to my father's office.
He opened the desk.
He knew exactly where to look.
Then he removed the false drawer base.
He took the key.
The same key that had later been inside the metal box.
I watched in silence.
Richard knew about the secret cellar.
He had searched it before us.
But he hadn't found the second file.
Then I noticed something.
He turned toward the camera.
Not accidentally.
Directly.
He smiled.
And whispered:
“Soon.”
The recording ended.
Emma stared at the screen.
“He knew the camera was there.”
“No,” Harold said.
“He wanted us to watch that.”
I felt a chill.
It wasn't surveillance anymore.
It was a message.
Then another file opened automatically.
A video recorded yesterday.
Stephanie sat at a restaurant table with Richard.
Her eyes were red.
“I can't do this anymore.”
Richard leaned closer.
“You will.”
“She doesn't deserve this.”
“This has nothing to do with deserving.”
“She loves Charles.”
“So do you.”
Stephanie looked down.
Richard's voice softened.
“Then save him.”
I leaned closer to the screen.
Richard slid a folder across the table.
Stephanie opened it.
Inside was a photograph of me.
And another of my mother.
Then Richard said:
“Choose.”
The video ended.
Emma whispered:
“What is he making her choose?”
I didn't answer.
Because the next recording had already started.
And Stephanie was standing outside Willowbrook Farm.
May you like
Alone.
Holding a gun.
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