Chapter 3
Nobody slept that night.
Dad wanted to call the police immediately.
I begged him not to.
“Maya, he stole your identity.”
“I know.”
“He controlled your phone, accessed your school accounts, forged loans—”
“I know.”
“Then why are we waiting?”
“Because I don’t know who he knows.”
Dad stared at me.
I hated how paranoid I sounded.
Jordan had made me question myself for months.
But the fear in my chest was real.
“He told me once that one of his friends worked in campus security.”
“That doesn’t mean the police are involved,” Dad said.
“I know.”
“So we call them.”
Grandma interrupted.
“Marcus.”
Dad looked at her.
“She has spent months being forced to do what other people decided was best for her.”
His face softened.
Grandma pointed toward me.
“Do not make the first thing you do after getting her home another decision over her head.”
That silenced him.
He sat beside me.
“What do you want?”
I did not know.
The question felt almost unfamiliar.
Jordan had chosen where we ate.
Who I saw.
When I studied.
What I wore to parties.
Whether I was “allowed” to be angry.
Now my father was asking what I wanted.
“I want to know what’s on the drive.”
Dad nodded.
“Then we start there.”
His younger brother, Uncle Raymond, owned a small cybersecurity company.
At seven the next morning, Dad called him.
He did not explain everything.
He only said we had a flash drive that might contain evidence of fraud and needed it copied safely.
Raymond arrived forty minutes later.
The moment he saw me, his expression changed.
“Maya?”
I hugged him.
He did not ask questions.
He simply said, “Whatever happened, you’re home now.”
Those words almost made me cry again.
Raymond examined the drive on an old laptop disconnected from the internet.
Dad paced behind him.
Mom kept making coffee nobody drank.
Grandma sat beside me.
After twenty minutes, Raymond stopped typing.
“Well.”
Dad turned.
“What?”
“This is not one guy improvising.”
My stomach tightened.
Raymond pointed at the screen.
“There are spreadsheets.”
“How many?”
“A lot.”
He scrolled.
Names filled the screen.
Dozens of them.
Students.
Mostly women.
Some names had dollar amounts beside them.
Some had account numbers.
Some had notes.
Mom whispered, “What are we looking at?”
Raymond’s face was grim.
“Identity theft.”
Dad leaned closer.
“From all these people?”
“Looks that way.”
I felt sick.
Jordan had not chosen me because I was special.
I had been a target.
Raymond opened another folder.
Photographs appeared.
Student IDs.
Driver’s licenses.
Financial aid documents.
Tax forms.
Then another folder.
Screenshots of private messages.
Personal secrets.
Arguments.
Embarrassing photographs.
Dad cursed under his breath.
“He collected leverage,” Raymond said.
“What does that mean?” Mom asked.
“It means if anyone pushed back, he had something he could threaten them with.”
My hands went cold.
Suddenly dozens of moments made sense.
Jordan always seemed to know things about people.
He always had gossip.
He always knew which professor was having marital problems or which student had been arrested years earlier.
“He told me he could ruin people,” I whispered.
Dad turned.
“When?”
“After I reported him.”
My voice shook.
“He said, ‘You have no idea how many people owe me.’”
Raymond looked at Dad.
“This needs law enforcement.”
“I agree,” Dad said.
I did too now.
Seeing the names changed something.
This was not only about me.
I recognized three women.
One had dropped out last semester.
Another had transferred.
The third had publicly apologized to Jordan after accusing him of harassment.
At the time, everyone said she had lied.
Maybe she had not.
I pointed.
“Her.”
Raymond looked.
“Who?”
“Nicole Harmon.”
I remembered the rumors.
“She accused Jordan of threatening her.”
“What happened?”
“She deleted everything and said she had exaggerated.”
Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“Maybe she was forced.”
Raymond copied the drive twice.
Then he placed the original inside a small evidence bag.
“We document everything from this point.”
Dad nodded.
At nine fifteen, he called a detective.
By noon, Detective Lena Brooks was sitting in our living room.
She was calm.
Patient.
She let me speak without interrupting.
That mattered more than she probably knew.
I told her everything again.
The relationship.
The isolation.
The school withdrawal.
The loans.
The folder.
The drive.
The message.
She examined the phone.
“Do you have the number Jordan usually uses?”
“Yes.”
“This message came from a different one.”
“He does that.”
“How many numbers?”
“I don’t know.”
She nodded.
“Did he ever physically prevent you from leaving?”
“Yes.”
Dad stiffened.
Detective Brooks glanced toward him.
“Mr. Carter, I understand this is difficult, but I need Maya to answer without worrying about your reaction.”
Dad immediately stood.
“I’ll go outside.”
I grabbed his wrist.
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Stay.”
So he stayed.
I told Detective Brooks about the night Jordan stood in front of his apartment door for nearly an hour.
About him taking my keys.
About him grabbing my arms.
About him threatening to send private pictures to my professors.
About the night I woke up and found him reading my messages.
Mom cried silently.
Dad did not move.
He just listened.
When I finished, Detective Brooks closed her notebook.
“You did the right thing by leaving.”
I stared at her.
Those six words hit me harder than expected.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I looked down.
Jordan had called me dramatic so many times that part of me still expected someone to say I had overreacted.
Detective Brooks continued.
“The financial documents may involve federal crimes. We’ll need specialists. But right now, my concern is your safety.”
“Can he be arrested?”
“Not based on a text message alone. But we can move quickly on the fraud evidence.”
Dad leaned forward.
“He knows where we live.”
My stomach dropped.
I had not said that out loud yet.
Of course Jordan knew.
He had driven me home once during freshman year.
Detective Brooks wrote down our address.
“Do you have cameras?”
Dad shook his head.
“I’m installing them today.”
She nodded.
“Do that.”
After she left, Dad drove straight to the hardware store.
Raymond stayed behind.
Mom insisted I eat something.
I tried.
Every sound outside made me jump.
At three twenty, the doorbell rang.
My fork fell onto the plate.
Everyone froze.
Raymond looked through the window.
“Delivery.”
Mom exhaled.
“I didn’t order anything.”
Raymond opened the door carefully.
A small cardboard box sat on the porch.
No driver.
No vehicle.
No label.
My heart started pounding.
“Don’t touch it,” I said.
Raymond stepped back.
Dad returned ten minutes later and called Detective Brooks.
An officer arrived.
The box was opened outside.
There was nothing dangerous inside.
Only a framed photograph.
Dad carried it in after the officer cleared it.
The picture showed me standing outside my college dorm.
I remembered the day.
Sophomore move-in.
I was laughing.
My parents were beside me.
Jordan had not even met me yet.
At least, that was what I had believed.
Dad turned the frame over.
A message had been written on the back in black marker.
I KNOW WHERE HOME IS.
Mom began crying.
My father did not.
He stared at the words.
Then he looked at me.
“Listen to me.”
His voice was low and steady.
“You are not leaving this house alone.”
I nodded.
“You are not answering him.”
I nodded again.
“And you are never going to face him without us.”
Something about the word us settled inside my chest.
I looked around the room.
Mom.
Grandma.
Uncle Raymond.
Dad.
For months, Jordan had convinced me I had nobody.
For the first time, I understood how powerful that lie had been.
Then Detective Brooks called.
Dad put the phone on speaker.
Her voice was urgent.
“Maya, I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Does the name Brianna Cole mean anything to you?”
I froze.
Brianna had been Jordan’s girlfriend before me.
He told me she was obsessive.
Dangerous.
A liar.
“Yes.”
Detective Brooks paused.
“We just found out she filed a report against Jordan two years ago.”
My skin went cold.
“What happened?”
“That’s what concerns me.”
May you like
Another pause.
“Three days after filing the report, Brianna disappeared.”
