Chapter 9 - The StudioMy studio had always been a sanctuary.
White walls.
Soft lights.
Rows of makeup palettes.
Mirrors.
Brushes.
Photographs of women I'd helped.
I had spent ten years building it into something Dad had once called shameful.
That night, it became a bunker.
Jake lay on the couch while Maya cleaned his wound.
Dad stood near the window.
I inserted the memory card.
Files appeared.
Thousands.
Medical records.
Surveillance.
Photographs.
Audio recordings.
Financial transactions.
Then I saw one folder.
"Evan."
I opened it.
My own photograph appeared.
Then another.
And another.
Video from my childhood.
I watched myself at thirteen.
Sitting in an office.
A doctor speaking.
Dr. Vale.
I was crying.
Dad stood behind the glass.
My mother was beside him.
I heard my younger self ask:
"Will it hurt?"
Vale answered:
"No."
He lied.
The screen changed.
A second recording.
Me at sixteen.
Packing my makeup kit.
Dad yelling.
Mom crying.
Jake standing silently.
But there was something I hadn't noticed.
Dad wasn't looking at me.
He was looking at the window.
At someone outside.
A stranger.
Watching the house.
The recording ended.
I turned to Dad.
"You knew they were there."
"Yes."
"And you still threw me out."
"Because they needed to believe you were abandoned."
I sat down.
For the first time, I understood how carefully my father had destroyed our family.
Then another file opened.
Maya appeared.
Sixteen years old.
Blood on her face.
A man dragged her into a car.
The timestamp was the night after prom.
I watched Dad's face.
He whispered:
"I thought she was dead."
Maya stared at the screen.
"My father sold me to them."
The file ended.
I looked at her.
"You survived."
"Barely."
"Who saved you?"
She pointed at Jake.
"He found me."
Jake smiled weakly.
"I was looking for Mom."
He turned to me.
"I found Maya first."
A noise came from the studio entrance.
Three knocks.
Everyone froze.
Dad reached for a weapon.
I whispered, "Who is it?"
A woman's voice answered.
"Evan."
My heart stopped.
Mom.
I moved toward the door.
Dad grabbed me.
"Don't."
"It's Mom."
"Exactly."
The voice came again.
"Please, son."
Tears filled my eyes.
"Mom?"
Silence.
Then she whispered:
"Your father killed your brother."
I turned.
Jake was still on the couch.
Alive.
I looked back at Dad.
His face had gone white.
And then the person outside laughed.
May you like
Not Mom.
Dr. Vale.
