Chapter 4 - The Video That Could Destroy Them
I stared at the message on my phone.
"Don't open the door. He's the person who recorded the video."
For a moment, I couldn't move.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I was trying to understand.
Someone had been watching.
Someone knew about the memory card.
Someone knew there was a video.
And someone knew exactly who was standing outside my daughter's hospital room.
Emily looked at me.
"Mom?"
I locked my phone screen.
"Stay behind me."
The shadow beneath the door moved.
A second passed.
Then another.
The person outside didn't knock again.
That bothered me more than the knocking.
People who wanted attention knocked louder.
People who wanted control waited.
I slowly moved toward the door.
My hand stayed close to my side.
Not because I wanted a confrontation.
Because I had learned something during my years in the military.
The most dangerous moment wasn't when someone attacked.
It was the moment before.
The moment when you realized they had already planned everything.
The door handle moved.
I stepped forward.
"Who is there?"
Silence.
Then a man's voice.
"Colonel Hart?"
My body immediately recognized the tone.
Not the person.
The training.
The confidence.
The voice of someone who believed he belonged wherever he was standing.
"Identify yourself."
A pause.
Then:
"Dr. Samuel Reeves."
Emily froze behind me.
I looked back at her.
Her face had gone pale.
The same doctor who requested her records.
The same man she said helped the Prescotts cover everything.
He was standing outside our door.
"I need to speak with you," he said.
I didn't open it.
"Why?"
"Because your daughter is in danger."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
"Interesting."
The silence on the other side told me he understood my meaning.
"You are asking me to trust the man who helped hide her injuries?"
"No."
His voice changed.
Softer.
More urgent.
"I'm asking you to understand that I was forced."
Emily whispered:
"Don't believe him."
I heard the fear in her voice.
Dr. Reeves heard it too.
"Emily, I know what they did."
Her eyes widened.
"How do you know?"
No answer.
I stepped closer to the door.
"You have thirty seconds to explain why I shouldn't call security."
"Because security won't protect you."
That was not the answer I expected.
"What does that mean?"
Dr. Reeves lowered his voice.
"The Prescott family has people everywhere."
I looked at the hallway camera above the door.
"Are you telling me the hospital is compromised?"
"I am telling you that if they know you have the memory card, you are no longer dealing with a family dispute."
I looked at Emily.
Then at the evidence bag.
"What is on the card?"
Silence.
Too long.
"Doctor."
Finally, he answered.
"A recording."
"What kind of recording?"
His voice became quieter.
"The kind that explains why Emily was never supposed to leave that house."
My hand moved toward the door.
Then stopped.
Because something didn't feel right.
Dr. Reeves wanted me to open the door.
He wanted access.
Maybe he was afraid.
Maybe he was telling the truth.
But fear didn't make someone innocent.
"Step away from the door," I said.
"Colonel—"
"Now."
A few seconds passed.
Then I heard footsteps moving away.
I waited.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Only then did I open the door slightly.
The hallway was empty.
But sitting on the floor outside was a small envelope.
No name.
No address.
Only one word written across the front.
"EMILY."
I picked it up.
The paper was old.
Not something placed there minutes ago.
Something someone had prepared.
I closed the door.
Emily watched me.
"What is it?"
I opened the envelope carefully.
Inside was a photograph.
A photograph of Ethan.
But not a recent one.
This was older.
Much older.
He was standing outside a building I recognized.
The Prescott guesthouse.
But Ethan wasn't alone.
Standing beside him was Dr. Samuel Reeves.
And between them was a third person.
Someone whose face had been scratched away.
On the back of the photograph were four words.
"HE KNOWS EVERYTHING."
Emily covered her mouth.
I looked at her.
"Do you know who that is?"
She shook her head.
"No."
I studied the photograph.
The scratches weren't random.
Someone had intentionally removed the person's identity.
The question was why.
Who was important enough to erase?
And who was afraid we would find them?
My phone vibrated.
Another message.
This time from the same unknown number.
I opened it.
A photo appeared.
My blood went cold.
It was a picture of Emily.
Taken inside the Prescott guesthouse.
She was asleep.
The timestamp was from two weeks earlier.
Before she escaped.
The message below said:
"They weren't keeping her there to control her."
I stared at the screen.
A second message appeared.
"They were keeping her there to protect what was hidden."
Emily looked at me.
"What does that mean?"
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know.
But I knew one thing.
Someone had been inside that house.
Someone had been documenting everything.
And that meant the memory card wasn't the only evidence.
I needed to get Emily somewhere safe.
Immediately.
I grabbed my phone and called a secure military contact I trusted.
The call connected instantly.
"Colonel Hart."
"I need a secure location."
A pause.
"Are you in danger?"
I looked at my daughter.
"Yes."
"Who is involved?"
I hesitated.
Then said:
"The Prescott family."
The silence that followed was different.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
"You need to leave that hospital."
My eyes narrowed.
"Why?"
The man lowered his voice.
"Because I just received a report."
"What report?"
"Someone accessed Mercy General's security system."
My grip tightened.
"When?"
"Three minutes ago."
I looked toward the hallway.
"What did they access?"
Another pause.
Then he said:
"Your daughter's room."
The call ended.
I didn't wait.
I moved toward Emily.
"We are leaving."
She looked confused.
"Mom?"
"Now."
I disconnected every unnecessary device.
Removed the hospital room information card.
Checked the hallway.
Empty.
Too empty.
A hospital was never this quiet.
Not unless someone wanted it that way.
I helped Emily stand.
She was weak, but she refused to complain.
That was my daughter.
Still fighting.
We reached the door.
I placed my hand on the handle.
Then I stopped.
Because there was something written on the other side of the glass.
A message on the hallway whiteboard.
A message that hadn't been there before.
Three words.
My daughter saw it too.
And she whispered:
"Mom..."
May you like
Because the handwriting belonged to someone who should have been nowhere near the hospital.
Someone who was supposed to be dead.
