Page 68 of Sweet Sinners
As I flip further, I come across printed text messages, their timestamps carefully recorded in the margins. My heart pounds harder as I read the texts associated with the yellow number, each word dripping venom and threat.
I know what you're hiding. You’re not going to get away with breaking up another family.
Throwing money at a loaded gun won't save you.
Security systems don’t help if you forget to set them.
It's remarkably simple to pull off murder if a person isn't stupid…and I'm not stupid.
The blood drains from my face, dread pooling cold and heavy in the pit of my stomach. The menace is unmistakable, chillingly calculated, too personal to ignore.
Swallowing hard, I quickly attempt to search the numbers online, hoping for answers, but the shady websites offering their services makemy stomach twist further. Abandoning the search, I pull my legs onto the chair, curling inward as if I could somehow shield myself from the truth hidden in these pages.
I reread the messages from the yellow number, feeling the malice bleeding through each sentence. It’s obvious the sender believes my father wronged them deeply, though they never explicitly say how. Just enough to scare him, to haunt him—but not enough to reveal who they are or what he might’ve done.
The green-marked conversations are different. They’re frequent at first, comforting in their consistency. My father’s words are protective, reassuring, as though trying to shelter someone vulnerable from harm. Someone he cared about. Someone who mattered.
Because beneath my father’s hardened exterior and relentless work ethic was a good man. He taught me patience, kindness, generosity. He showed me that caring wasn’t weakness, even if he wasn’t always able to express it himself.
He was a good man, despite whatever secrets he may have kept.
And whoever sent these messages stole him from me.
At the very back of the folder, I find a single letter, carefully typed—no handwriting to trace, no obvious clue to follow. But the message is clear, brutal in its intent.
I don't want your money. I want your reputation. I want you to hurt like she does, like I do. Karma catches everyone, and soon it'll find you defamed, exposed, vulnerable. I'd tell you to bite the bullet and come clean, but you'd just twist the truth again. Self-righteous rich men are pigs, wallowing in their filth and calling it paradise. I'll take everything, tell everyone, and enjoy watching you squirm.
My pulse races painfully, a tight knot forming in my chest as I read the words again, dread seeping deeper into my bones with each sentence.
In the margin, scribbled sharply in my father's unmistakable handwriting—red ink like a stark warning—are the words:
"Office paper, office printer. They're close."
I whisper the words aloud, my voice sounding fragile and lost in the silence of the room. My throat tightens painfully, my vision blurring as tears burn at the corners of my eyes. My father had known. Known that someone close—someone within his trusted circle—was out to destroy him. He’d carried this fear, this torment, entirely alone.
Did he ever go to the police? Did my stepmother know? Did he tell anyone?
A tear slips down my cheek, splashing quietly onto the paper, smudging the red ink slightly. It hits me like a blow—how alone he must've felt, trapped in a nightmare he couldn't share, even with his own daughter.
The leaks, the scandals attacking our family's reputation, the threats—it all aligns perfectly. Whoever did this is still close. Still within reach.
But why stay? Why linger in the shadows after getting away with murder?
None of this makes sense.
I curl up tighter in the oversized chair, the frustration and heartache clawing fresh wounds into my chest. A quiet voice in my head warns me—I should call Dr. Anderson, should catch myself before this spiral pulls me under—but I don’t. Not yet. Instead, I press my cheek against the cool leather, breathing in the familiar scent, and pretend just for a second that I’m a little girl again. Safe in my father's lap, listening tohis gentle reassurance that everything will turn out fine, that I'm doing exactly as I should.
I give myself a minute—maybe ten—to drown in grief before finally lifting my gaze to the USB drive. It sits small and harmless-looking in my palm, mocking me like a silent dare.
My dad kept it hidden for a reason. Whatever’s inside must’ve been important—dangerous, maybe. But was it meant for me? What if it’s deeply personal, something he never wanted me to know? Or worse, what if this was left by the person who stole him from me?
My pulse drums in my ears as I turn it over between my fingers, battling the dread and morbid curiosity tangling inside me. Finally, before my courage slips away, I slide it into the port on my computer.
The screen lights up, and a dozen folders spring open before me, each title more disturbing than the last:
Precious Family
CAUGHT
