Chapter 6
Two weeks after the dinner, Dad took me home.
Not to stay permanently.
Not yet.
Investigators had finished documenting the relevant rooms, and Dad had arranged for professionals to inspect the security system.
The unauthorized devices were removed after the necessary evidence had been preserved.
Denise was no longer living there.
Victor had been instructed not to enter the property.
Additional legal restrictions were being pursued to protect me.
But walking through the front door still made my stomach tighten.
The house looked almost exactly the same.
The large windows.
The elegant staircase.
The white furniture Denise never allowed me to touch.
The dining room chandelier.
Everything was familiar.
And everything felt different.
Dad stood beside me.
"Do you want to leave?"
I shook my head.
"I want to see my room."
He nodded.
We climbed the stairs together.
When I reached my bedroom, I stopped.
The little black camera was gone.
The decorative panel had been repaired.
The hallway looked ordinary.
But I still felt watched.
Dad noticed.
"We can change anything you want."
I looked at him.
"Anything?"
"Within reason."
I almost smiled.
That sounded like the Dad I remembered from childhood.
I opened my bedroom door.
The room was neat.
Too neat.
Denise always insisted that nothing could be out of place.
My books were arranged by height.
My clothes were folded according to color.
Even my pencils were lined up inside a drawer.
I looked around.
"I want to paint the walls."
Dad smiled.
"What color?"
"Blue."
"Then blue it is."
I stared at him.
"She said blue was childish."
He shrugged.
"Good thing she isn't decorating anymore."
I laughed.
It surprised both of us.
For a moment, the room felt lighter.
Then I noticed something on my desk.
A small wooden box.
It hadn't been there before.
I opened it.
Inside were several of my mother's photographs, an old bracelet, and a handwritten recipe card.
My breath caught.
"Mom's things."
Dad stepped closer.
He looked surprised.
"I thought those were in the storage closet."
I shook my head.
"Denise told me she threw them away."
His face changed.
"She said what?"
I picked up the bracelet.
It was a delicate silver chain with a tiny heart charm.
Mom used to wear it every day.
After she died, Dad gave it to me.
Denise took it when I was thirteen.
She said I was too young to care for something valuable.
I hadn't seen it since.
Now it lay inside the box.
I pressed it against my chest.
Dad looked devastated.
"I'm sorry."
I shook my head.
"She's gone now."
He nodded.
"Yes."
But I wasn't sure whether I believed those words emotionally.
Denise was no longer in the house.
Yet I still heard her voice whenever I made a choice.
Don't touch that.
Don't eat so much.
Stop crying.
You're embarrassing me.
I told Dr. Brooks about it later.
She explained that fear could remain after the danger ended.
She said healing would take time.
And she reminded me that I didn't have to rush.
That afternoon, Dad and I packed away the serving dress.
He asked whether I wanted to keep it as evidence.
The police had already photographed it and documented its relevance.
I shook my head.
"I never want to see it again."
He placed it in a sealed bag.
Then he asked what I wanted to wear instead.
I looked at my closet.
For years, Denise chose most of my clothes.
She liked conservative colors.
Long skirts.
Plain blouses.
Nothing she considered attention-seeking.
I wanted jeans.
A yellow sweater.
And sneakers.
Dad took me shopping.
Not for expensive gifts.
Not to distract me from what happened.
But because I wanted to choose something for myself.
We spent nearly an hour in a small clothing store.
I tried on jeans.
I chose a soft yellow sweater.
Then I found a pair of white sneakers.
Dad smiled.
"You look happy."
I stared at myself in the mirror.
I did.
For the first time in a long time, I looked like a seventeen-year-old girl instead of someone trying to avoid punishment.
At the register, I hesitated.
"Is it too much?"
Dad looked confused.
"What?"
"The clothes."
He shook his head.
"No, sweetheart."
I lowered my voice.
"Denise said I was expensive."
His expression softened.
"Taking care of you is not a burden."
I swallowed.
He continued.
"And you don't owe me gratitude for meeting your basic needs."
I stared at him.
That was something nobody had ever said to me.
I nodded slowly.
When we returned to the hotel, Dad received a call from his attorney.
Victor's financial records had revealed several transfers from Carter Family Services into Denise's personal account.
The amounts matched payments billed to my trust.
Dad listened carefully.
Then he asked, "How much?"
The attorney named the figure.
Nearly sixty thousand dollars.
My stomach tightened.
Dad looked toward me.
He didn't try to hide the truth.
Instead, he told me that investigators had found more evidence connecting Denise to the suspicious payments.
I sat beside him.
"Will they have to give it back?"
"We're pursuing recovery."
I looked down.
"Did she spend it?"
"Some of it, probably."
I nodded.
For a moment, I felt angry.
Then I felt tired.
I was tired of discovering new lies.
Tired of hearing how much money had been taken.
Tired of remembering all the times Denise told me I was selfish.
Dad noticed.
"We don't have to talk about this tonight."
I looked at him.
"Can we do something normal?"
He smiled.
"Absolutely."
We ordered pizza.
We watched a comedy.
And when I laughed so hard that soda nearly came out of my nose, Dad laughed with me.
It was the best evening I'd had in years.
The next morning, I received a message from an unknown number.
I stared at the screen.
The message contained only one sentence.
Your father doesn't know the worst thing Denise did.
My stomach dropped.
I showed Dad immediately.
He read it.
Then he called Detective Harris.
She asked us not to respond and requested a copy.
A few hours later, investigators traced the message to a prepaid phone.
They couldn't immediately identify the sender.
But another message arrived that evening.
This one contained a photograph.
It showed Denise standing outside a building I recognized.
My old elementary school.
Beside her stood a man in a gray suit.
Underneath the photograph was a date.
The day my mother died.
I stared at it.
My hands began shaking.
"Dad?"
He looked at the screen.
May you like
His face changed.
Then he whispered, "I know that man."
