Chapter 3 - The Web of Lies
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My mind was spinning, trying to reconcile the woman I loved with the monster who had signed away our daughter's safety.
"Dad?" Sophie's voice was small, trembling. "Are we going home?"
"No, sweetheart," I said, trying to keep my voice calm and steady despite the adrenaline surging through my veins. "We're going to a safe place. A hotel. Just for tonight."
"Is Mommy mad at me?" she asked, a tear slipping down her red, chapped cheek.
My heart broke into a million pieces. "No, Sophie. You did nothing wrong. You are the bravest girl in the world. I promise you, I will never let anyone hurt you again."
We drove in silence for an hour, heading away from our home, away from Aurora, toward the city of Denver. I needed a neutral ground, somewhere Evelyn's influence couldn't reach easily. I checked my rearview mirror every thirty seconds, expecting police lights or a black SUV to appear behind us.
My phone buzzed again. A text from Laura: David, please. You don't understand. She has my phone. She has everything. Please don't go to the police. Let me explain. I did it to protect you.
I stared at the screen at a red light. Protect me? How did letting our daughter freeze in a shed protect me?
We checked into a small, nondescript motel on the outskirts of Denver. I carried Sophie inside, her small body exhausted from the trauma. I ran a warm bath for her, made sure she drank some hot tea, and tucked her into bed. Within minutes, she was fast asleep, her breathing finally deep and even.
Sitting at the small wooden desk in the motel room, I opened my laptop and plugged in one of the USB drives I had taken from the cabinet.
It was filled with video files.
I clicked on the oldest one. The video loaded. It was a surveillance feed of a basement room. A young Laura, maybe ten years old, was sitting on a cold concrete floor, crying. Evelyn's voice came through the speakers, cold and detached, instructing her to recite her manners.
I clicked on a more recent folder labeled "Sophie."
My breath hitched. The video showed my daughter, only six years old at the time, being locked in the very same guest cottage. But what shocked me was who was standing next to Evelyn in the video, holding the padlock.
It was Laura. She was crying, her shoulders shaking, but she snapped the lock shut anyway.
Just as the horror of the video settled into my bones, a soft knock came at the motel room door.
May you like
I froze. I reached for the pocket knife I kept in my jacket. Slowly, I approached the door and peeked through the peephole.
Standing in the dim, yellow light of the motel corridor, shivering in a thin coat, was Laura.
