I didn’t stop until I reached my car. In the dim light of the parking garage, I unfolded the note. The handwriting was shaky, the letters pressed so hard into the paper they nearly tore through.
“Dad, if something happens to me, check the camera I hid in my room.”
The world tilted. The “accidental” fall was no longer a tragedy—it was a crime. I drove home in a daze, red lights and sirens blurring into a smear of color. Our suburban house, once a place of piano practice and laughter, now felt like a mausoleum.
I sprinted to Lily’s room. She was a child who loved puzzles and spy novels, a girl who understood secrets better than the adults around her. I began a frantic search, tearing through stuffed animals and bookshelves. Panic clawed at my throat—had they found it? Had they cleaned the room before the ambulance arrived?
Continue reading…
