Chapter 7
I laughed.
I don’t know why.
Maybe because the alternative was screaming.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
Nobody answered.
“I was a baby.”
My father said, “Yes.”
“Who intentionally infects a baby?”
He moved closer.
“Emma.”
I backed away.
“No.”
Mrs. Adler said, “Your mother never proved it.”
“Proved what?”
My father finally answered.
“That someone tampered with medication during your hospitalization.”
The room tilted.
I grabbed the edge of a table.
“What medication?”
“You were born six weeks early.”
I knew that.
“You spent almost a month in neonatal care.”
I knew that too.
“One evening there was a contamination incident.”
I stopped breathing.
“What contamination?”
“A bottle used during your treatment tested positive for bacteria.”
My voice sounded far away.
“And that caused the infection?”
“The doctors believed so.”
“You told me it was a random hospital infection.”
My father’s voice was heavy.
“That was the official conclusion.”
I shook my head.
“What did Mom think?”
“She believed someone deliberately replaced the bottle.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
Mrs. Adler did.
“Because your mother received a note.”
Of course.
Another note.
“What did it say?”
She hesitated.
My father whispered, “Margaret.”
“She deserves to know.”
“Not like this.”
“There has never been a good way.”
My hands shook.
“What did it say?”
Mrs. Adler answered.
“It said, ‘Now you know what it feels like to lose what you love.’”
I stopped moving.
The hum of the archive lights became unbearable.
My father took my hand.
This time I let him.
“Was the note from Victor Whitmore?”
“No.”
“He was dead by then,” my father said.
I frowned.
“What?”
“Victor died two years before you were born.”
“Then who sent it?”
“We don’t know.”
“Did police investigate?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They found nothing conclusive.”
My mind raced.
“Did Daniel Whitmore know?”
My father hesitated.
“I don’t know.”
“That means maybe.”
“It means I don’t know.”
I pulled away.
“What did Mom put in the safety deposit box?”
“We don’t know.”
“You never opened it?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“It is legally yours.”
“So why stop Mrs. Adler from telling me?”
His answer was immediate.
“Because once you opened that box, I knew this would happen.”
“What?”
“You would start digging.”
“Yes.”
“And whoever sent that note might still be alive.”
The fear in his voice was real.
Not billionaire fear.
Not business fear.
A father terrified of losing his daughter.
For a moment, my anger softened.
Then my phone rang.
The ringtone echoed through the archive.
Sophie whispered, “That’s yours.”
I reached into my pocket.
Unknown number.
My father said, “Don’t answer.”
I answered.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Then breathing.
Slow.
Distorted.
I froze.
“Who is this?”
A voice came through a digital filter.
“You should have gone home.”
My father grabbed the phone from my hand.
“Who is this?”
The caller laughed.
Then disconnected.
The room exploded into motion.
My father called his security chief.
Mrs. Adler locked the archive door.
Sophie started crying.
I stood perfectly still.
The fear came late.
But when it came, it was massive.
My father spoke quickly.
“Trace the call.”
His security chief replied through speakerphone.
“We’ll try, but if it’s internet-routed—”
“Try.”
He ended the call.
Then he turned toward me.
“We are leaving.”
I didn’t argue this time.
Not because he had won.
Because someone knew exactly where I was emotionally, even if they didn’t know physically.
Someone knew I was asking questions.
At the elevator, we heard running footsteps.
A man shouted.
“Mr. Moretti!”
My father’s security moved instantly.
Then Dr. Shaw called out.
“It’s Detective Morales.”
My father stopped.
A detective approached.
“Your team said you were down here.”
“What happened?”
“We searched Principal Hayes’s office.”
My heart pounded.
“And?”
“We found a hidden flash drive.”
Dr. Shaw asked, “What was on it?”
“We don’t know yet. It’s encrypted.”
My father said, “Then why are you telling us?”
“Because we also found printed photographs.”
I swallowed.
“What photographs?”
Morales paused.
“One is of a teenage girl at the bottom of a staircase.”
My father’s breath stopped.
“Isabella.”
“We believe so.”
“Was anyone else in the photograph?”
“No.”
I asked, “What else did you find?”
Morales hesitated.
“A second photograph.”
“Of what?”
“You.”
My father moved instantly.
“What?”
The detective continued.
“Emma leaving your apartment building three weeks ago.”
Every sound disappeared.
My father became terrifyingly calm.
“Show me.”
Paper shifted.
Dr. Shaw gasped.
My father said nothing.
I touched his arm.
“Dad.”
He didn’t answer.
“Dad, is it me?”
“Yes.”
My skin prickled.
“How can you tell?”
“You’re wearing the yellow coat Aunt Maria gave you.”
I remembered that morning.
First day of school.
I had worn the coat because my aunt insisted yellow was lucky.
I whispered, “Someone photographed me before I even started Westbridge.”
“Yes.”
Detective Morales added, “There are six photographs.”
My father asked, “All Emma?”
“Four.”
“What are the other two?”
Morales paused.
“One is Mrs. Adler entering the school.”
The elderly woman behind us whispered, “Oh.”
“And the last?”
The detective hesitated.
“It appears to be Daniel Whitmore.”
My father said, “Doing what?”
“Meeting Principal Hayes in a parking garage.”
Dr. Shaw muttered, “Richard said they barely knew each other socially.”
“When was the photo taken?” I asked.
“Two months ago.”
Before I enrolled.
My mind raced.
“Were they planning this?”
My father said, “We don’t know.”
Detective Morales continued.
“There’s something written on the back.”
My entire body went cold.
“What?”
He read it.
“Second generation.”
Nobody spoke.
The words felt like ice pressed to my spine.
Mrs. Adler said, “Anthony.”
“I know.”
“What does it mean?” I demanded.
He took a breath.
“Your mother received notes using that phrase.”
I tightened my grip on his sleeve.
“You never told me.”
“I never thought you would see it.”
“What did the notes say?”
He hesitated.
Mrs. Adler answered.
“Some debts last generations.”
My stomach turned.
Sophie whispered, “This is insane.”
Yes.
It was.
But insanity didn’t mean it wasn’t real.
Detective Morales said, “There’s more.”
My father sounded exhausted.
“Of course there is.”
“One photograph appears newer than the others.”
“How new?”
“Today.”
My pulse jumped.
“Today?”
“It’s a picture of the cafeteria entrance.”
My father stepped closer to Morales.
“What time?”
“According to the metadata printed on the photo, twelve forty-seven.”
My humiliation with Carter had happened shortly after one.
Someone had been watching.
Morales continued.
“On the back, there’s another message.”
I almost didn’t want to ask.
But I did.
“What does it say?”
The detective read five words.
“Let the daughter finish it.”
My father whispered, “We’re done.”
I turned to him.
“What?”
“You are leaving Westbridge.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I absolutely do.”
My anger returned instantly.
“You put me here without telling me the truth.”
“And now I am taking you out.”
“That’s exactly what they want!”
“Emma.”
“They wanted Mom to leave.”
He froze.
I continued.
“They tortured her until she left.”
“This is different.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“They are threatening you.”
“They threatened her too.”
His voice cracked.
“She almost died.”
“So your answer is to let them win again?”
“My answer is to keep my daughter alive!”
The words echoed down the basement corridor.
Nobody spoke.
My father never shouted at me.
Not like that.
His breathing broke.
“I buried your mother.”
His voice became softer.
“I will not bury you.”
My anger disappeared.
I reached for him.
He pulled me into his arms.
For several seconds, I was six years old again.
Safe.
Then my phone buzzed in his pocket.
Everyone froze.
My father took it out.
A text.
He read silently.
I asked, “What does it say?”
Nothing.
“Dad.”
He handed the phone to Detective Morales.
The detective swore.
“What?”
Morales answered.
“It’s a photograph.”
“Of what?”
He hesitated.
“Your mother’s grave.”
My legs weakened.
May you like
Then he read the message beneath it.
“Open the box, Emma.”
