CHAPTER 6 The Man Who Was Too Afraid to Speak
Detective Brooks read the note three times before saying a word.
She said if I talked... she'd burn her too.
The handwriting wavered across the page as though the writer's hand had been shaking.
"Was this written by Richard?" I asked.
Brooks didn't answer immediately.
"It appears to be."
"Appears?"
"We won't know until handwriting analysis is complete."
"But someone wanted us to find it."
The sentence settled over the room like smoke.
Someone.
Not necessarily Richard.
His apartment looked frozen in time.
A half-eaten bowl of soup sat on the kitchen counter.
The television was still playing a morning news program.
His reading glasses rested beside an open crossword puzzle.
One clue had been filled in.
E S C A P E
Seven letters.
The word sent a chill down my spine.
Forensics spent hours combing through the apartment.
No fingerprints except Richard's.
No signs of forced entry.
No blood.
No struggle.
Nothing.
It was as though he had willingly opened the door to someone he trusted.
Or someone he feared too much to refuse.
Detective Brooks called me that evening.
"We found something on Richard's laptop."
"What?"
"A folder he'd hidden."
Inside were dozens of scanned documents.
Maintenance schedules.
Master key logs.
Apartment access reports.
Most of them looked routine.
Until Brooks opened the last file.
It was titled:
CM
My initials.
The folder contained photographs.
Not the same ones from the anonymous email.
Older ones.
Me walking to class.
Me carrying groceries.
Me sitting alone outside the library.
Each image had a date.
A time.
A location.
Someone had been documenting my movements for months.
My stomach twisted.
"Richard took these?"
"We don't know."
"But they were stored on his computer."
The final document wasn't a photograph.
It was a spreadsheet.
Every row contained information about me.
Monday
Library: 8:15 to 11:40.
Tuesday
Design Lab: 2:00 to 5:00.
Thursday
Coffee with female friend.
Female friend.
Not Maya.
Not by name.
Just...
Female friend.
As if she were another object being tracked.
"I want police protection for Maya," I said immediately.
Brooks nodded.
"Already arranged."
The answer surprised me.
She had anticipated it.
For the first time since all this began, I felt as though someone was staying one step ahead...
Instead of one step behind.
The next morning, Brooks had another update.
"We identified the printer."
"What printer?"
"The one used to print your anonymous notes."
Hope flared inside me.
"Can you trace it?"
She sighed.
"Partially."
"It came from the public library."
My shoulders sank.
A public printer.
Hundreds of people used it every week.
Another dead end.
Or so I thought.
"There is one unusual detail."
"What?"
"The documents were printed at exactly 8:42 p.m."
"So?"
"The security cameras recorded everyone using that computer."
I leaned forward.
"You saw them?"
"We saw... almost everyone."
The footage showed students printing essays.
A man making photocopies.
A mother helping her son.
At 8:41 p.m., the camera flickered.
Static.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then the picture returned.
The printer was working.
A fresh sheet of paper slid into the tray.
But no one stood in front of it.
Whoever had printed the documents had disappeared during the camera blackout.
Deliberately.
"Could the footage have been edited?" I asked.
Brooks shook her head.
"No."
"The camera itself lost signal."
"Someone interrupted it."
Professional.
Again.
Every step suggested planning.
Patience.
Resources.
This wasn't impulsive harassment anymore.
It was an operation.
That afternoon, I attended therapy.
My counselor, Dr. Evelyn Grant, listened carefully as I described everything.
When I finished, she asked a question no detective had asked.
"Caitlyn..."
"What scares you most?"
I expected to say:
Being watched.
Being followed.
My mother.
Instead...
The answer surprised even me.
"That people will stop believing me."
Dr. Grant nodded slowly.
"That's what long-term psychological abuse does."
"It teaches victims that truth is fragile."
"You've spent years defending reality itself."
I hadn't thought of it that way.
But she was right.
Every conversation felt like a trial.
Every memory needed evidence.
When I returned to temporary housing, Officer Daniel was waiting outside.
His face looked unusually tense.
"I need you to see something."
He handed me a manila envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Old.
Slightly faded.
It showed a church picnic.
Families smiling.
Children running across a field.
Near the back of the image stood a woman wearing pearl earrings.
My mother.
Standing beside her...
A man in jeans and a baseball cap.
Richard Hale.
I looked up in disbelief.
"They knew each other."
Daniel nodded.
"This photo was taken fourteen years ago."
"When you were thirteen."
The same year I had been diagnosed.
The same year my mother began telling everyone I was unstable.
My mind raced.
Richard hadn't met my mother recently.
He'd known her for years.
Maybe before he ever worked at the university.
Maybe...
Long before.
Detective Brooks immediately reopened Richard's background investigation.
By midnight, another connection emerged.
Richard had volunteered at the same church as my mother.
For nearly eight years.
Not close friends.
But close enough to recognize each other.
Close enough...
To trust one another.
Or to be manipulated.
The next afternoon, Brooks called again.
"Caitlyn."
"We searched Richard's storage unit."
"You found him?"
"No."
"But we found something unexpected."
"What?"
"A locked metal box."
Inside were dozens of VHS tapes.
Labeled by year.
One tape had my name written across it.
CAITLYN
Age 13.
Brooks' voice grew quieter.
"We haven't watched it yet."
"Why not?"
"Because if what's inside is what we think it is..."
She paused.
"It may become the most important piece of evidence in this entire case."
As I stared at the phone in my hand, a single terrifying thought surfaced.
If my mother had been recording me...
How many years had she been collecting material?
And how many lies...
May you like
Had been carefully rehearsed before anyone else ever heard them?
End of Chapter 6.
