Chapter 3
Amy's POV
On the drive back from Blackstone, the sky opened up.
The wipers swept back and forth across the windshield, keeping time with my racing thoughts.
Arthur's last words kept replaying in my head: "Just like he destroyed your mother."
My mother, Mary Davis. The official story—Dad's story—was that she died from a drug overdose, severe depression. She died when I was only seven—a year before I was "assaulted."
Dad would get emotional in front of cameras when he talked about Mom, called her a fragile angel he couldn't save.
Had Dad killed her too?
What did Uncle Arthur know?
I pulled over, letting the rain pound against the roof.
I closed my eyes and forced myself to remember that year when I was seven.
In the months before Mom died, the house was always tense and quiet. I remembered Mom locking herself in the bedroom, crying. She always had bruises on her arms, dark purple marks.
Dad would say softly, "Mommy's sick, sweetheart. She's getting treatment."
One night, I woke up to Mom and Dad fighting in the study. Their voices carried down the hall.
"You're a monster, Robert! I'm taking Amy and leaving! I'm going to the police!"
Mom sounded terrified, desperate.
"You're not going anywhere, Mary. Who's going to believe a mentally unstable woman?"
Dad's voice was eerily calm. Too calm.
The next day, Mom "overdosed."
A year later, I was attacked. Uncle Arthur became the scapegoat.
I could see it now:
Mom had discovered something evil about Dad—what he really was. She'd tried to expose him, tried to run with me. So Dad killed her and made it look like suicide.
Uncle Arthur must have figured it out. Maybe he'd even found proof.
To shut him up for good, Dad came after me and pinned it on Arthur. He'd threatened Arthur with my life, or with the truth about Mom's death, and forced him to sign a confession.
"Robert Davis..."
I said the name through clenched teeth, tasting blood in my mouth.
The grief and rage hardened into something cold inside me.
I wasn't that terrified eight-year-old anymore. Tears wouldn't fix this. They'd only make that monster feel more powerful.
I was going to fight back.
I'd make him pay.
By the time I got home, it was evening.
Every light in the house was on.
"Amy, where have you been? You're soaked."
Dad emerged from the living room, whiskey glass in hand, looking worried.
"I was over at a friend's—we were planning our graduation trip. My car died on the way home and I got stuck in the rain."
The lie slipped out easily. I even gave him an apologetic smile.
"Sorry, Dad. Didn't mean to worry you."
"Well, why don't you go warm up? Take a hot shower, okay?"
He walked over and touched my hair.
His hand was large and warm, and it took everything in me not to flinch away.
On that hand was the heavy gold ring.
After my shower, I locked myself in my room and pulled out Buster's collar.
I studied the brass tag closely.
The tag was thick, heavier than a normal dog tag should be. I picked at the edge with my fingernail and found a hairline seam.
My heart started racing. I grabbed a small flathead screwdriver and carefully worked it along the seam.
A soft click.
The tag split in two.
Hollowed out, with something inside—a black chip no bigger than a fingernail. A tiny recording device.
I remembered now.
Ten years ago, Dad had invested in a tech startup. He'd brought home a few prototypes of "smart pet collars" that were cutting-edge at the time. He'd put one on Buster. The collar had GPS tracking and could automatically record audio if it detected an abnormal heart rate.
Dad had missed this.
When he'd gotten rid of Buster, he must not have realized the collar had ended up hidden in the basement clutter—maybe by Uncle Arthur, maybe someone else.
This chip had the truth.
My hands shook as I dug out an old card reader, inserted the chip, and plugged it into my laptop.
A folder popped up on screen with a single audio file inside.
Created exactly ten years ago. That night.
I put on my headphones, took a deep breath, and hit play.
