Chapter 3 - THE RECORDING
Dad moved faster than I had ever seen him move.
He pushed me behind the kitchen island and told Ryan to stay down.
A second window shattered.
Then silence.
No footsteps.
No shouting.
Nothing.
The intruder had disappeared.
Police arrived eight minutes later.
They found the back door open, muddy footprints near the porch, and one object left behind.
A small silver lighter.
Dad picked it up using a tissue.
He stared at the engraving.
“Pierce.”
Ryan looked sick.
“You recognize it?”
Dad nodded.
“Ethan used to carry one exactly like this.”
The police took the lighter as evidence.
Then Dad connected the flash drive to his laptop.
There was only one file.
A recording.
The date was twelve years earlier.
I pressed play.
A man's voice filled the room.
My father's voice.
“You need to understand. If this money disappears, people are going to die.”
Another voice answered.
Older.
Angrier.
“We don't care about the money.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Control.”
The recording continued.
They discussed property purchases, shell companies, and an unnamed trust.
Then a woman's voice appeared.
I recognized it immediately.
My grandmother.
“If you come after Claire, I'll release everything.”
I covered my mouth.
Dad stared at the screen.
The recording ended.
There was one final sentence.
“The trust belongs to Claire's descendants, not the Bennett family.”
I looked at Ryan.
“My descendants?”
He nodded slowly.
“That's why they wanted you pregnant.”
The room went silent.
I felt sick.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Then why did Natalie keep asking about children?”
Ryan looked away.
I remembered every strange conversation.
Every time Natalie had asked whether I planned to have children.
Every time she had made comments about inheritance.
Every time Ryan had insisted we update our estate documents.
At the time, I thought it was normal.
Now it felt like someone had been studying my life.
Dad closed the laptop.
“We need to get you somewhere safe.”
“I am not running.”
“Claire—”
“No.”
I looked at the photograph from the fire.
“They burned my house because they thought something was inside it.”
Ryan nodded.
“And now they're afraid we found it.”
“What is it?”
“We don't know.”
Dad picked up the silver locket.
“Your grandmother did.”
He opened it.
Inside was a tiny folded piece of paper.
A number.
Just six digits.
Dad stared at it.
“That's a safe-deposit box number.”
“Where?”
“Chicago.”
Ryan stood.
“Natalie has family there.”
Dad looked at him.
“So does Ethan.”
That night, we stayed at a hotel under a false name.
I couldn't sleep.
Around 3:14 a.m., my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
ASK RYAN WHY HE WAS AT THE HOUSE TWO HOURS BEFORE THE FIRE.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message arrived.
A photograph.
Ryan standing outside our house.
The date was the night of the fire.
The timestamp was 10:42 p.m.
Two hours before the flames were reported.
I looked across the room.
Ryan was asleep.
Or pretending to be.
I quietly got out of bed.
“Ryan?”
His eyes opened.
“What?”
I showed him the photograph.
His face collapsed.
“You need to let me explain.”
“You were there.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He sat up.
“Because Natalie called me.”
“What did she tell you?”
Ryan swallowed.
“She said someone had broken into the house.”
“And you believed her?”
“I did.”
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
He looked at the floor.
“Because when I arrived, the fire had already started.”
My heart hammered.
“And what did you see?”
May you like
Ryan's voice broke.
“I saw your mother.”
