Chapter 1
The jewelry box slammed against the marble countertop so hard that I thought the glass lid would shatter.
"LOOK AT ME, MALIK!"
My father's voice shook the entire kitchen.
I stood frozen beside the island, my heart pounding so violently that I could barely breathe.
Inside the open jewelry box was a diamond ring.
A beautiful, expensive ring that belonged to my stepmother, Denise.
And somehow, that ring had been found inside my school bag.
"Tell me the truth!" my father shouted. "Why was this found in your bag?"
I shook my head.
"Dad, I swear I didn't put it there!"
"Then how did it get there?"
"I don't know!"
My father, Marcus Williams, was a big man.
At forty-eight, he stood over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a bald head, and a thick salt-and-pepper beard.
He rarely raised his voice.
But when he did, everyone listened.
Today, his anger was directed at me.
His seventeen-year-old son.
The boy he had raised to believe that honesty mattered more than anything.
And the worst part was that he thought I was lying.
"Marcus, don't let him fool you."
My stepmother's voice came from the other side of the kitchen.
Denise stood beside the refrigerator, wearing a bright magenta satin blouse and expensive diamond earrings.
Her arms were folded across her chest.
And there was a small, satisfied smile on her face.
"I told you something was wrong with him," she continued.
I turned toward her.
"What?"
She sighed dramatically.
"Malik, sweetheart, we caught you. There's no point pretending anymore."
My stomach twisted.
For three years, I had lived under the same roof as this woman.
Three years of watching her smile when my father entered a room.
Three years of hearing her call me ungrateful whenever we were alone.
And three years of trying to convince myself that maybe she would eventually accept me.
I had been wrong.
"Dad, please listen!"
My father pointed toward the ring.
"That's worth almost forty thousand dollars!"
"I know!"
"Then explain why it was hidden in your backpack!"
"I can't explain something I didn't do!"
Denise shook her head.
"See? Always an excuse."
I stared at her.
She didn't look shocked.
She didn't look hurt.
She looked pleased.
And suddenly, I remembered something.
Something I had almost forgotten.
Three weeks earlier, my father had installed a new security system.
After several packages disappeared from our front porch, he had ordered cameras for the entrances, garage, and downstairs rooms.
The kitchen camera was mounted above the pantry.
It faced the marble island.
And because Dad wanted me to learn how the system worked, he had given me access to the camera application on my phone.
My heart began pounding for an entirely different reason.
"Dad."
He was still furious.
"What?"
"Wait."
I reached into my jacket pocket.
Denise's expression changed.
Just slightly.
But I noticed.
I pulled out my phone.
"Before you say anything else, look at this."
My father frowned.
"Look at what?"
"The security footage."
Denise laughed nervously.
"Oh, please. Now he's trying to distract you."
I ignored her.
My fingers trembled as I opened the camera application.
The recording from earlier that afternoon appeared on the screen.
I selected the kitchen camera.
Then I moved backward through the timeline.
At 3:42 p.m., I had returned home from basketball practice.
I remembered dropping my backpack beside the island before going upstairs to shower.
At 3:49, Denise entered the kitchen.
Alone.
I tapped the screen.
The video began playing.
And there she was.
My stepmother.
Standing beside my black school bag.
She looked toward the hallway.
Then toward the kitchen entrance.
Finally, she bent down and unzipped my backpack.
My father's expression changed instantly.
"What the hell?"
I swallowed.
"Keep watching."
On the screen, Denise searched through my bag.
She moved my textbooks.
Checked the side pocket.
Then reached into the main compartment.
She remained bent over for several seconds.
The angle didn't clearly show what was in her hand.
But it showed enough to destroy her story that she'd never touched my belongings.
My father slowly lifted his eyes.
"Denise."
She had stopped smiling.
"Marcus, I can explain."
"You went through my son's bag?"
"I was looking for something!"
"What?"
She hesitated.
"A receipt."
My father stared at her.
"A receipt?"
"Yes! I thought he had taken something from my purse."
I shook my head.
"That's another lie!"
Denise stepped toward me.
"Give me that phone."
I pulled it against my chest.
"No!"
"Malik, don't make this worse!"
She lunged.
Her fingers reached for the screen.
I jerked backward.
Before she could grab me, my father stepped between us.
"Don't touch him."
His voice was low.
Dangerously low.
Denise froze.
"Marcus, honey—"
"I said don't touch my son."
For the first time since she married my father, I saw real fear in her eyes.
But I wasn't finished.
Because while searching the recording, I had noticed something else.
A second clip.
Only a few minutes later.
It was from the camera near Dad's home office.
And I had recognized the person entering that hallway.
Denise.
Carrying a small black folder.
I hadn't watched the entire clip yet.
But something about the way she kept looking behind her made my stomach tighten.
"Dad," I whispered.
He turned toward me.
"What is it?"
"There's another video."
Denise's face turned pale.
"Malik, don't."
I stared at her.
"Why?"
She shook her head.
"Please."
It was the first time I had ever heard my stepmother beg me for anything.
My father looked between us.
"What else is on that phone?"
I opened the second recording.
Denise took another step toward me.
"Marcus, you have to understand—"
"Understand what?"
She began shaking.
I looked down at my screen.
The recording showed Denise entering the hallway outside Dad's office.
She was carrying the black folder.
Then someone else appeared.
A man I had never seen before.
He was wearing a gray suit.
He followed Denise toward the office.
My father leaned closer.
"Who is that?"
I shook my head.
"I don't know."
The man turned toward the camera.
And my father's entire body went rigid.
"No."
His voice was barely a whisper.
I looked at him.
"Dad?"
He grabbed the edge of the island.
"That can't be."
Denise backed toward the doorway.
My father slowly raised his eyes.
"Denise."
She began crying.
"Marcus, please."
He pointed at the phone.
"Why was my brother in my house?"
I stared at him.
His brother?
My uncle?
The man my father had told me was dead?
Before I could ask another question, Dad whispered something that made my blood run cold.
May you like
"My brother died fourteen years ago."
And on my phone, the man who was supposed to be dead was standing inside our house.
