Chapter 2
Amy's POV
The next few days, I was walking on eggshells.
Every dinner, Dad still asked gently about my college prep, still carefully cut my steak for me like always.
The knife scraped across the porcelain plate, making a grating screech.
Every scrape made me want to crawl out of my skin.
"Amy, you look a little pale lately." Dad set down his knife and fork, concern in his eyes. "Getting nervous about school?"
"I think I'm coming down with something, Dad."
I forced a smile, my palms slick with sweat. I couldn't look him in the eye—couldn't risk him reading my thoughts.
After dinner, I made an excuse about checking course materials at the city library and got out of that house.
In the archives room at Boston Public Library, I used Dad's judicial credentials to pull up the digital file from ten years ago—"The Arthur Davis Sexual Assault Case."
The screen glowed white in my face.
I opened the police interview transcript, the testimony I'd given at eight years old with a therapist and my father by my side.
[Officer: Amy, can you tell us who came into your room that night?]
[Amy: It was... it was Uncle Arthur.]
[Officer: How could you tell it was him? It was dark in there, right?]
[Amy: Dad told me Uncle Arthur was the only one who'd been at the house that night. And... and when he covered my mouth, I felt the ring on his hand.]
I stopped breathing.
The ring.
Eight-year-old me had mentioned a ring.
But Uncle Arthur never owned a ring.
I scrolled down, hands shaking.
The evidence list had no record of any ring.
In the cross-examination transcript, Arthur's public defender had raised this discrepancy, but my father—already a prominent prosecutor by then—had dismissed it as "confused memory from a traumatized child."
The worst part was the psychologist's evaluation report.
It read:
"Amy exhibited severe post-traumatic stress disorder following the incident. She has created a fantasy about a golden retriever attempting to protect her. This is merely a protective delusion produced by a child under extreme fear, as no evidence of canine activity was found at the crime scene."
A delusion?
Buster was a DELUSION?
I clamped my hand over my mouth, tears spilling down my cheeks.
I remembered Buster clear as day—his wet nose poking me awake every morning, his golden fur all over the couch, his yelp when he got kicked into the dresser.
That was NOT a delusion.
Someone had cleaned out my room that night, had gotten rid of Buster entirely, all to cover up the smoking gun—Uncle Arthur's dog allergy.
The only person who could pull that off, who could make the police ignore inconsistencies, who could get a psychologist to write a leading report, who could make the entire justice system look the other way—
Only one person in this town could do that.
Robert Davis.
My father.
I sat there, everything gone quiet.
Nausea churned in my stomach.
The father I'd loved and respected for ten years was not only a monster who raped his own daughter—he'd framed his own brother for it.
Why?
Why would he do this?
Why would Arthur confess?
At the end of the file was Arthur's plea agreement.
His signature, shaky and barely legible.
The record showed that on the third day after his arrest, Arthur had suddenly dropped all defense and voluntarily admitted to everything.
There had to be more to this.
I had to see Uncle Arthur.
The next afternoon, behind Dad's back, I rented a car and drove to Blackstone Maximum Security Prison at the state line.
It was the first time in ten years I'd gone to see him.
In Dad's version of the story, Arthur was scum who got what he deserved. I hadn't even wanted to speak his name.
But now, he was my only lead.
The visiting room reeked of bleach.
I sat behind the bulletproof glass, holding the phone receiver, my hands clammy.
The metal door opened.
Two guards escorted a man in an orange jumpsuit into the room.
When I saw his face, my eyes filled with tears.
Was this the same Uncle Arthur from my memories, who was always smiling, who used to carve little wooden horses for me?
He was barely past forty, but his hair had gone white, his back hunched like an old man's. A brutal scar ran across his left eye, and he dragged his right leg with a severe limp.
What had they done to him in here for ten years?
He looked up slowly. When he saw me, his entire body began to shake. His eyes filled with shock, fear, and something like agony.
He shuffled to the glass and picked up the phone.
"Amy..." His voice came out hoarse. "You... you shouldn't be here. If Robert knows you came—"
"Uncle Arthur." I cut him off, trying not to cry. I pressed close to the glass and lowered my voice. "I found Buster's collar. I remembered. The man that night—it wasn't you."
His eyes went huge.
He froze, the phone nearly slipping from his hand.
He looked around frantically, checking if anyone was listening.
"Shut up! Amy, SHUT UP!" He hissed into the phone. "You don't remember anything! That dog was a hallucination! It was me—I'm the one who did it, I'm the animal! Get out. Don't ever bring this up again!"
The harder he pushed, the more certain I became.
"He's threatening you, isn't he?" I demanded, heat flooding my face. "What's he holding over you? What made you take the fall?"
"Please, Amy, I'm begging you..." Arthur pressed his face against the glass, tears streaming down. "He'll crush you. He's a devil. If you try to overturn this... he'll destroy you. Just like he destroyed your mother."
Everything stopped.
Mother?
Mom didn't die from an illness?
"Go home. Go to college, leave this state, and don't ever come back."
Arthur hung up the phone and walked back into the dark corridor without looking back.
I slumped in the chair, cold all over.
I finally understood. I wasn't just dealing with a hypocrite. He'd sacrifice anyone for power—even his own family.
But I wouldn't run.
I would find the proof.
