PART 1 — The Flash Drive
The children were Mia, twelve, and Ben, nine.
Their mother, Laura, had moved next door two years earlier with her husband, Rick.
Rick wasn’t their biological father, but everyone in the neighborhood saw him as a friendly, successful family man.
He installed home-security systems.
Cameras.
Alarms.
Smart locks.
He knew police officers and business owners all over the county.
He smiled at block parties.
Helped at school fundraisers.
Whenever Laura spoke, he often placed a hand against the back of her neck.
I used to think it looked strangely possessive.
I never imagined how right that instinct was.
After finding the note, I carried the flash drive inside and plugged it into an old laptop.
Seven folders appeared.
PHOTOS.
RECORDINGS.
MONEY.
RICK’S TRUCK.
MOM’S PHONE.
DATES.
READ FIRST.
I opened the final folder.
Mia appeared on-screen sitting inside what looked like her closet.
Ben was beside her.
“If you’re watching this,” she whispered, “either Rick found out or Mom didn’t come home.”
My stomach tightened.
Then she explained.
Rick controlled Laura’s bank cards.
He had taken her passport.
He checked her phone every night.
