“I already did,” the security manager replied.
Andrew opened the file.
The footage showed Sophia entering Valerie’s bedroom.
Every night.
Always around the same time.
And always carrying the same small purple bottle.
Andrew stared at the screen.
Then he noticed something else.
Sophia never entered alone.
Someone was waiting for her downstairs.
A man.
Andrew didn’t recognize him.
The man’s face was partially hidden beneath a baseball cap, but there was something familiar about the way he stood.
Detective Collins leaned closer.
“Do you know him?”
Andrew shook his head.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She paused the footage.
“Look at his jacket.”
Andrew zoomed in.
There was a small embroidered logo on the chest.
A private security company.
Andrew’s face changed.
“I know that company.”
“Who hired them?”
“My company.”
“Could someone have been assigned to your house?”
Andrew thought for several seconds.
Then his blood ran cold.
“My chief financial officer.”
Detective Collins looked at him.
“Why would your CFO hire security for your home?”
Andrew didn’t answer.
Because suddenly, the pieces were beginning to connect.
Sophia had never been interested in Valerie.
She had been interested in controlling the house.
And Andrew’s daughter might have known something she wasn’t supposed to know.
That night, Andrew returned home with Detective Collins.
Sophia was gone.
Her attorney had apparently advised her not to return until the investigation was complete.
Valerie remained at the hospital under observation.
Andrew entered his daughter’s bedroom alone.
The room was painfully neat.
Every stuffed animal was arranged perfectly.
Every book was aligned.
Every pencil was sharpened.
There was no child’s mess.
No drawings scattered across the floor.
No toys left where they had been played with.
It looked like a room designed for a child rather than a room belonging to one.
Andrew opened the desk drawer.
Inside was a notebook.
He recognized it immediately.
Valerie used to write in it before Sophia moved into the house.
He opened the first page.
There were drawings.
Their old family.
Andrew.
Elena.
Valerie.
A yellow house.
A dog they had never owned.
A tree with red apples.
The next pages changed.
The drawings became darker.
A woman without a face.
A little girl standing behind a locked door.
A bottle colored purple.
And on one page, written in uneven seven-year-old handwriting:
DADDY DOESN’T KNOW.
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