Chapter 3 - The Boarding School Lie
The file was titled “CONF_BACKUP_10_12.mp4”.
I sat with Isaac in his hospital room, the lights dimmed, the only illumination coming from the screen of Detective Vance’s rugged police laptop. Sophie was still asleep, now tucked into a small cot the nurses had brought in for her.
The video started with a view of the basement hallway.
The camera, positioned high in the corner of the ceiling vent, had a wide-angle lens that looked through the open door of the bathroom and down the narrow concrete corridor toward the stairs.
The date stamp on the bottom of the screen read: July 14, 2025.
One year ago.
On the screen, my fourteen-year-old nephew, Toby, was standing in the hallway. He was a quiet, sensitive boy, who looked so much like his father it was painful—the same thick glasses, the same slight slouch, the same gentle, hesitant way of speaking.
He was holding a duffel bag, his face pale and streaked with tears.
Lydia stood in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest, her posture rigid and cold. Beside her stood Jeremiah.
“I’m not going, Mom,” Toby’s voice rose from the laptop speakers. It was high, cracking with the awkwardness of puberty and the sheer panic of a child being discarded. “Please don't make me go to Oregon. I didn't do anything wrong. I swear I didn't tell anyone.”
“You lied to me, Toby,” Lydia’s voice was a flat, dead hiss on the recording. “You went into your father’s office. You looked at my financial statements on his computer. You think I don't know? You think I’m stupid?”
“I was just looking for a game!” Toby cried, his shoulders shaking as he took a step back toward the stairs. “I didn't see anything, I swear! I don't care about the money!”
Jeremiah stepped forward on the video. He was smiling—that same, horrifying, too-many-teeth smile that had always made my skin crawl. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around Toby’s collar, pulling the fourteen-year-old boy off his feet until his face was inches from his own.
“Listen to me, you little rat,” Jeremiah whispered. The microphone in the vent was highly sensitive, capturing every low, menacing syllable. “You’re going to get in that car. You’re going to go to that school in Oregon, and you’re going to stay there. You are not going to call your father. You are not going to write him. If you say one word about the accounts, or about what I did to those buildings, I will make sure your father’s little software company goes bankrupt. I will make sure he spends the rest of his life in prison for fraud. Do you understand me?”
“Jeremiah, please,” Toby sobbed, his hands clawing at his uncle’s wrists.
“Do you understand me?” Jeremiah roared, slamming the fourteen-year-old boy against the concrete wall of the hallway.
The sound of Toby’s shoulder hitting the wall was a dull, sickening thud. He collapsed onto the floor, clutching his arm, his glasses sliding across the concrete.
Lydia didn't move. She didn't flinch. She watched her brother abuse her son with the cold, detached interest of a spectator at a tennis match.
“Get his bag, Jeremiah,” Lydia said on the tape. “The driver is waiting at the gate. Let’s get this over with before Isaac gets home from his business trip.”
The video showed Jeremiah grabbing Toby by the arm, dragging him up the stairs like a sack of laundry, while Lydia picked up his duffel bag and followed them.
The screen went black.
In the hospital room, Isaac was shaking. His hands were clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists against the hospital sheets, his teeth grinding together so hard I could hear the enamel click.
“They told me he wanted to go,” Isaac whispered, his voice cracking, his eyes wide and wild with a father’s grief. “They told me... they told me Toby was depressed. That he wanted a fresh start. That the boarding school in Oregon had the best computer science program in the country. They... they made me sign the enrollment papers while I was at the airport.”
“They lied to you, Isaac,” I said, tears running down my own cheeks as I held his shaking hand. “They threatened Toby. They used his love for you to force him into silence. They isolated him so he couldn't tell you about the money.”
“What money?” Isaac asked, looking at Detective Vance. “What financial statements was Toby looking at?”
Vance pulled a document from his folder. “Your wife’s brother, Jeremiah, has been running a massive real estate fraud scheme for the last three years. He’s been using shell companies to buy condemned commercial properties, falsifying building inspection reports, and then selling them to unsuspecting buyers for millions.”
“And Lydia?” I asked.
“Lydia was his inside person,” Vance said. “Her public relations firm handled the marketing, but she was also using your home network—specifically, your secure server connections—to launder the wire transfers. Toby accidentally stumbled onto the transfer logs on your server while he was looking for a Minecraft file. He saw Jeremiah’s name next to a seven-million-dollar offshore account.”
Isaac let out a low, agonizing groan, burying his face in his hands. “I built that server. I built the security. I... I gave them the tools to destroy my own son.”
“You didn't know, Isaac,” I said, squeezing his shoulder. “You could never have imagined they were capable of this.”
“But Jeremiah is still out there,” Detective Vance said, his voice grim. “He knows the police are looking for him. He knows the camera footage exists. And most importantly, he knows that Toby is the only witness who can tie him directly to the physical abuse and the financial fraud.”
My heart stopped.
“Oregon,” I whispered. “Toby is still at that school in Oregon.”
“We’ve already contacted the Oregon State Police,” Vance said, reaching for his radio. “But the school is in a remote area of Hood River. It takes nearly forty minutes for a patrol car to get out there. We’ve sent a unit, but we haven't been able to reach the dean. The phone lines to the school are down due to the storm.”
Isaac sat up in the hospital bed, his IV line pulling taut, his face suddenly filled with a terrifying, desperate energy.
“He’s going after my son,” Isaac said. “He’s going to silence him, Rachel. I have to go. I have to get to Oregon.”
“Isaac, you can't walk!” I cried, trying to hold him down. “Your shoulder is dislocated, your kidneys are failing—”
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“I don't care!” he roared, his voice returning with a power that made the medical monitors beep in alarm. “That is my boy! He’s fourteen years old, and he’s alone in the woods with a monster! I am going!”
He tore the IV line from the back of his hand, blood welling from the small wound as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
