Chapter 2 - The Red File
Miles’s hand was steady as he picked up the cold piece of metal from the floor, but inside, his world was tilting on its axis. He looked at the tiny silver drive, his brain scrambling to find a logical, harmless explanation. Perhaps it was an old backup of family photos. Perhaps Sarah had put it there years ago.
But Chloe’s terror was too real.
"Go wash your face, sweetheart," Miles said, keeping his voice as level and calm as a frozen lake, though a hot, dark rage was beginning to spark in the pit of his stomach. "Let me look at this. We’re going to figure this out, I promise."
"Don't let them see," Chloe whispered, her eyes darting toward the window that looked out onto the quiet, tree-lined street. "Please, Dad. He told me he was watching."
"Who?" Miles asked, his grip tightening on the USB drive until the metal corners bit into his palm. "Who told you that, Chloe?"
"The man in the car," she said, her voice cracking. "The one who drives me home from school when you're late."
Miles felt the blood drain from his head.
For the past year, because of his demanding schedule at the firm, he had relied on a private car service—a highly vetted, premium company recommended by the school’s administration. The driver was a quiet, polite middle-aged man named Arthur Vance, a retired military veteran with a spotless record and a warm, grandfatherly demeanor who always carried a box of strawberry licorice in his glove compartment because he knew it was Chloe's favorite.
"Arthur?" Miles whispered, his chest tightening.
Chloe didn't answer. She simply turned and walked into her private bathroom, closing the door behind her, leaving Miles alone in the pale morning light.
Miles stood up, his legs feeling heavy and foreign. He walked to his desk in the corner of his own bedroom, opened his laptop, and inserted the USB drive into the port. The computer hummed to life, a small icon appearing on the screen: Removable Disk (D:).
He clicked it open.
There was only one folder inside. It was labeled simply with a single period: .
He clicked the folder. Inside were forty-two image files, labeled by date and time. The most recent file was dated yesterday, April 15th, at 3:14 a.m.
Miles clicked the first image.
His breath caught in his throat. The photo was taken from a high angle, looking down at Chloe's bed. The image was dark, shot in infrared, showing Chloe asleep beneath her pink duvet, her small face peaceful. In the bottom-right corner of the image, the timestamp glowed a cold, electronic green.
He clicked through the next five images. They were all the same—taken from the exact same angle, showing Chloe in various stages of sleep on different nights over the past six months.
But it was the seventh image that made Miles’s stomach turn to lead.
The angle was different. This photo was taken from inside the closet, looking through the wooden slats of the door. The image captured the edge of Chloe's desk, and standing beside it, his back to the camera, was a tall man in a dark jacket. The man was holding a small, black device—a camera lens—and adjusting its position near the crown molding of the ceiling.
The man’s face wasn't visible, but on his right hand, wrapping around his wrist, was a distinctive, jagged scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.
Miles knew that scar.
It belonged to Julian Mercer, his business partner, his closest friend, and the godfather of his daughter. Julian was the man who had stood beside him at Sarah's funeral, the man who had helped him pick out Chloe's piano, and the man who had unrestricted, key-card access to their home so he could check on Chloe whenever Miles was stuck in late-night board meetings.
Miles closed the laptop with a violent slam, the sound echoing through his quiet room like a gunshot. His hands were shaking now, not with fear, but with a primal, homicidal fury that threatened to swallow him whole.
"Dad?"
Miles turned to see Chloe standing in the doorway, her ivory dress now on, her hair neatly brushed, but her eyes still filled with a quiet, desperate plea.
"Are we still going to the recital?" she asked.
May you like
Miles looked at his daughter, his beautiful, innocent girl who had been living in a house of wolves while he slept just down the hall. He walked over, knelt down, and pulled her into a tight, protective embrace.
"Yes, sweetheart," he whispered against her hair. "We’re going to the recital. And I promise you, by the time you finish your song, no one will ever hurt you again."
