Chapter 12 Daniela
DANIELA
I find nothing.
A chill ripples through me, crawling under my skin until I have to rub my arms to chase it off.
But I can’t stop. Not now.
The idea of Belinda sneaking out of Chef Charleston’s house in the middle of the night to meet a stranger makes my stomach twist. After everything she’s been through. After everything we promised her this home would be. Safe. Stable. Loving.
And she just…walked out?
She came home wired the next morning, practically bouncing off the walls, chattering about the games they played and the pancakes Chef Charleston made. I was so happy. Clearly she felt as though she belonged.
Maybe she was feeling comfortable enough to test boundaries. That’s not a bad thing.
But now I wonder if it was adrenaline from her secret meeting with the guy she met in the chatroom.
God, Belinda. What were you thinking?
I return to the house.
“Anything?” Raven asks.
I shake my head. “I’m going to check the computer again. I must have missed something.”
I return to Belinda’s room and scroll through the chat once more, looking for clues—words, hints, anything that might tell me who this man was. But the username is nonsense, the grammar is clean. Punctuated. Mature. Not another kid.
My throat tightens.
“Dani?” Raven’s voice floats from the doorway. “You’ve been in here for almost an hour again. Maybe it’s time to stop for tonight.”
I swivel toward her. She looks wrecked, with her hair piled messily on her head, her robe loose at the waist, her eyes rimmed in red. Vinnie stands behind her, his arms crossed, silent. He’s the stillness to her storm.
“This is all so ridiculous,” Raven says. “She knows better than to meet strangers.”
“She’s eleven,” I remind her. “Knowing better doesn’t always mean doing better.”
Raven presses a shaking hand to her forehead. “She’s been so good lately. So grounded. I thought…”
“She might’ve just been curious,” Vinnie says, ever the voice of reason. “She clearly wanted answers about her father. We should have told her, I guess.”
“No.” Raven turns into his arms. “We can’t keep second guessing ourselves. We did what we thought was right.”
“We did,” he agrees. “But she’s young and bright, and she knew we were keeping things from her. Hell, she knew what kind of man he was. He did terrible things to her. She wanted the whole truth. And she found someone willing to tell her.”
“But who?” I ask. “And why now?”
No one answers.
I stand and run a hand through my hair. The air feels heavy with all the things we don’t say. I grab my phone. “I need to call Chef Charleston.”
Raven frowns. “It’s almost midnight.”
I’m well aware of the time, but I’m already making the call before either of them can argue any further.
The line rings three times before a sleepy voice answers. “Hello?”
“Chef? It’s Daniela Agudelo from class. I’m so sorry to call this late.”
“Daniela?” His voice sharpens. “Is there news?”
“Not exactly.” I pace to the window. “I found out Belinda was messaging someone online. She arranged to meet him the night of the sleepover with Gwen.”
There’s a pause on the line. “Messaging…?”
“Yes. They were supposed to meet outside your house. Around three a.m.”
“What?” His voice cracks. “No, no, that can’t be. I told the police everything. I haven’t seen her since that morning. Gwen is so upset. She’s been crying nearly nonstop. But I swear I’ve told you everything I know.”
“I believe you,” I say quickly. “I just need to confirm something. Do you have exterior cameras? A Ring doorbell? Anything?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Two in the back, one out front.” He hesitates. “You think this man actually came to my house?”
“I don’t know. But if he did, there might be footage.”
Chef exhales heavily. “All right. I’ll check it all out in the morning.”
“The morning?” I gasp into the phone. “I can’t sleep. Not until I know if someone was there and Belinda met with him. Please, Chef. I know it’s a lot to ask, but can I drive over now? Can we—”
“Daniela—”
“Please, Chef. Please.”
A long pause.
Until—
“Okay. Fine. I’ll check the feeds now.”
“I want to see them.”
“Daniela…”
“Please, Chef.” Then, before he can protest again, “I’m on my way.” I end the call.
I might be getting an F this semester.
Who the fuck cares? This is way more important.
And Chef is a decent guy, as far as I can tell. He won’t hold this over me.
Vinnie crosses his arms. “You’re not going alone.”
“Yes, I am,” I say. “You two need rest. And if the cops find out I went poking around again, they’ll lose it. I’ll just look at the footage, get a time stamp, and bring it back.”
Raven frowns. “Be careful.”
“I will. Chef Charleston is a good man. I’ll be perfectly safe.”
The drive to the Charlestons’ place is dark and quiet, the kind of silence that feels thick enough to touch. Every shadow looks like a threat. Every mile stretches longer than the last.
I keep replaying Belinda’s chatter from that morning—her laughter, her bright eyes, the bright orange cheeseball dust on her shirt. And beneath it, the nagging image of her slipping out a back door under the cover of night.
By the time I reach the Charleston property, my stomach’s a knot.
The front gate clicks open automatically, the security light spilling over the driveway. Chef Charleston is waiting at the door, hair tousled. His eyes are tired but kind.
“Come in,” he says quickly. “I pulled up the camera feeds.” He places a finger to his lips. “We need to be quiet. Gwen is finally asleep and I don’t want to wake her.”
“Thank you.” I step inside.
Chef’s house smells of vanilla and coffee and the lingering scent of garlic and curry. He must have prepared something Indian for dinner earlier.
We move to his home office, a small room off the kitchen lined with cookbooks and framed awards. A laptop glows on the desk, already open to his camera app.
“I haven’t looked yet,” he says. “Frankly, I was apprehensive.”
I nod, sitting beside him. “I don’t blame you. Let’s start with the front door.”
He scrolls through the timeline, his finger trembling just a little. The footage jumps in thirty-second intervals. Midnight. One. Two. Then—
At 3:04 a.m., motion triggers the camera.
A man in a dark hoodie approaches the porch. He keeps his face downward before moving out of frame.
My breath catches. “There. Stop. Rewind.”
Chef does. We play it again, slower this time. The man doesn’t ring the bell. Just stands there for a second. Then turns toward the side of the house.
“Front yard camera next,” I say. “Then the back.”
Chef switches feeds. For a minute, there’s nothing but stillness—the wind in the trees, a raccoon scurrying across the grass. Then the back door creaks open.
Belinda steps out.
She’s wearing her pink sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt, her blond hair loose around her shoulders. My heart sinks.
“Oh, God,” I whisper. “That’s her.”
She glances around, clearly nervous, before walking toward the man. They meet near the hedgerow. He bends down to speak to her. She nods, arms folded tight against the chill.
“Can you zoom in?” I ask.
Chef hesitates. “The resolution isn’t great—”
“Try.”
He adjusts the playback. The image enlarges. It’s still grainy and pixelated, but it’s enough to catch the flash of movement when a breeze gusts through the yard. The man’s hood slips back for half a second, and in that instant, his face tilts toward the light.
Every muscle in my body locks.
“Rewind,” I say, gulping. “Go back. Slow it down.”
He does.
Frame by frame.
And there he is again. Full lips. Strong jaw. Eyes I know as well as my own nightmares.
Diego Vega.
The breath leaves my lungs all at once.
But he’s dead.
Vinnie promised. Had photographic evidence.
So it can’t be.
It can’t.
But it is.