MY FAMILY LOCKED MY SISTER IN A FREEZER — BUT THEY DIDN’T KNOW WHAT SHE HID IN HER COAT 109a

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I got off the bus six stops later. A 24-hour diner—the kind that never closed, never asked questions. I'd been here before, back in high school, when things at home got too heavy.

The waitress didn't look up from her phone. "Sit anywhere, hon."

I took a booth in the back. Corner. View of both entrances. I don't know how I knew to do that—maybe some survival instinct I'd never known I had.

I ordered coffee. Black. When it came, I held the cup in both hands until they stopped shaking.

Then I opened my laptop and plugged in the flash drive.

Password protected. Of course.

I tried the obvious ones. Dad's birthday. Mom's birthday. Anniversary. Nothing.

I tried Karen's birthday. My birthday. Still nothing.

I sat back. Thought.

What would Karen use?

She'd pointed to her chest. Her coat pocket. She'd wanted me to find this. She'd wanted me to open it.

I tried her childhood nickname. Nothing.

Then I thought about what she'd said. Everything is there.

I typed: TRUTH.

Access denied.

I typed: FAMILY.

Access denied.

I typed: DAD.

The screen flickered. A folder opened.

Inside were three files. A video. A document. And a folder labeled "FINANCIALS."

I opened the video first.

Dad's face appeared on the screen. He was sitting at his desk—the one in his study, the one we weren't allowed to touch. He looked tired. Scared.

"Karen," he said. "If you're watching this, I'm already dead."

My coffee went cold in my hands.

"I'm recording this because I don't know who else to trust. Your mother... your mother's involved in something. Something big. And I found out."

He looked over his shoulder. Checked the door.

"There's a ledger. Hidden in the restaurant. Behind the wine rack in the cellar. It has names. Dates. Amounts. Money laundering. I don't know how deep it goes—I don't know how many people are involved—but I know your mother's at the center of it."

He leaned closer to the camera.

"Your uncle Ray. Your aunt Patricia. They're all part of it. They've been using the restaurant for years. And when I threatened to go to the police..."

He swallowed.

"I don't think I'm going to live much longer. But I need you to know. I need you to find that ledger. I need you to—"

A noise. Off-screen. Dad's head whipped around.

"Someone's here. Karen, I love you. I love you and Marcus both. Don't trust anyone. Not even—"

The video cut out.

I sat there. Frozen. My dad's voice echoing in my head.

Murdered. My dad was murdered.

I opened the document next.

It was notes. Karen's handwriting, scanned and digitized. Dates. Times. Observations. She'd been investigating for years.

10 years ago: Dad dies. Mom says heart attack. No autopsy. Cremation within 48 hours.

9 years ago: Uncle Ray takes over restaurant finances. I find weird paperwork in the office. Mom says it's nothing.

7 years ago: I overhear Mom and Ray fighting. Something about "the shipment." Something about "the cops getting close."

5 years ago: I find the wine cellar locked. Mom says it's for storage. I've never seen it open.

3 years ago: I start my own investigation. Track the money. Follow the shell companies. It all leads back to the restaurant. To Mom.

1 year ago: I confront Mom. She laughs. Says I have no proof. Says I'm just like Dad—weak.

6 months ago: I find the ledger. I take photos. I hide the originals somewhere safe.

1 month ago: Mom finds out. She gives me a choice. Leave forever or face the consequences.

1 week ago: I choose to stay. I'm not letting her win.

3 days ago: They're going to do something. I can feel it. If anything happens to me, the drive is in my coat. Marcus will find it. Marcus will know what to do.

I closed the laptop. My hands were shaking again.

She'd known. She'd known they were going to hurt her. And she'd stayed anyway.

Because of me. Because she believed I would find it. Because she thought I would know what to do.

I didn't know what to do.

But I knew someone who might.

I pulled out my phone. Scrolled through contacts. Found a name I hadn't called since college.

"Hello?"

"Jake? It's Marcus."

A pause. "Marcus? Marcus who?"

"Marcus DeLuca. We were roommates."

"Shit. Marcus." A laugh. "What's it been, five years? What do you want?"

"You still with the FBI?"