Chapter 16 #2
Not for the first time, and probably not the last, I wonder, Did my mother know what he was doing? I hope not. But I wouldn’t be surprised at this point if she had.
As we make our way to the office, my pulse jumps again.
What will I find inside? Will it be enough to put an end to this? And when he gets home, what will he say? Will he deny it? Or admit everything?
Once we reach my father’s office, Houdini makes quick work of the lock. Then we’re in.
While Houdini crouches by the safe hidden in one of the cabinets, I take a seat in my father’s office chair and boot up his computer. Using the USB drive I brought with me, I quickly install password hacking software on the system, and in under a minute, I’m in.
For the next ten minutes or so, Houdini and I work in relative silence, punctuated only by the soft clicking of the keyboard and almost inaudible snicks as Houdini spins the old-school dial on the safe.
I’m not finding much so far, just folders filled with client data and spreadsheets of company expenses.
Then I move on to the hidden files—the files a lot of users don’t know about. But apparently, my father does. And as soon as I start scanning through the contents of them, I realize I’ve found what I was looking for.
There are financial records—account numbers, statements, and lists of cryptocurrency passwords—for over a dozen anonymous accounts. For each of them, there are regular deposits of tens of thousands of dollars, sometimes monthly, sometimes more often.
My fingers fly over the keyboard as I access each account and run reverse searches for each payment to find the payee.
A shocking number of the names I find are well-known people from the New York City area, including politicians, attorneys, and CEOs.
There’s no indication of what the payments are for, but the fact that they’re not included in the official company financials tells me there’s something off with them.
Next, I move on to the cryptocurrency records. And that’s where things get even darker.
My father hasn’t received payments via crypto. He’s only paid out. Three times, at thirty K each.
The first was the day Sofia was attacked in the alley.
The second was later that night.
And the third was the day before she was shot at outside Fox & Falcon.
It’s not proof that he tried to have her killed, that stubborn voice from my past insists. It could be coincidence.
But it isn’t, and I damn well know it.
Nausea rises, sending bile up my throat.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and flex my fingers, breathing through the anger until the urge to punch the computer monitor passes.
The fucking bastard.
Just as I’m about to dive into the files again, Houdini says, “Rogue. I think you need to see this.”
I glance over, surprised to find him looking into the safe. I hadn’t even noticed he’d gotten it open.
“What is it?” I ask as I get up from the desk and cross the room to the safe. “What did you find?”
Sympathy darkens his expression. “I think it’s better if you look for yourself.”
A terrible sense of foreboding settles over me.
Once I look inside, nothing will ever be the same.
Kneeling beside the safe, I peer into it. There are several stacks of paper inside, three burner phones, and over a dozen tiny cassettes I recognize as coming from an old-school micro-recorder.
“I looked through some of it,” Houdini says solemnly. “But I put it all back the way I found it. So you can see it just like I did.”
I don’t want to, the boy inside me pleads. He’s my father. He’s supposed to be a hero. Not a villain.
With growing horror, I look through the papers. I click the micro-cassettes into a recorder I find inside my father’s desk and listen to several of them. I scroll through the recent calls on the burner phones, searching for numbers I recognize.
And what I find is even worse than I could have imagined.
On the recordings are verbal deals going back decades—deals that not only involve my father installing custom security systems for his special clients, but agreeing to bypass the security in order to allow entry at the locations in question.
I listen to my father’s crackly but very recognizable voice assuring his clients that they’ll be able to get inside the building, that it’ll all be covered up, that he’ll make absolutely certain that the crime can’t be linked back to them.
The paperwork just adds to the horrifying reality. On each sheet of paper, one of my father’s deals is outlined in detail—the people involved, the location, time frame, and even the intended purpose.
As I sort through the records, I cross check some of the details on my phone, finding reports of crimes that match. Kidnappings. Burglaries. Assaults. Even murder.
Everything I’m finding paints a horrifying picture.
Yes, my father’s company has an above-board, legal side to it. But there’s another part, a dark and sinister part, that enables people with money to commit crimes without fear of repercussions.
Maybe they already have the security system installed, and my father just happens to let them know he can help them with sensitive matters in the future. Or he installs the system at the client’s request with the express purpose of enabling them to gain unrestricted access later. Then he waits.
When the client decides it’s time—to break in to steal expensive jewelry their ex kept in the divorce, vandalize the inside of the home, kidnap their own children during a vicious custody battle, threaten and assault someone who owes them money—they just contact my dad on one of the burner phones.
Then they tell him when, and he makes it happen.
It makes sense, in the most terrible of ways.
What better way to ensure that you get away with a crime than getting the person who installed the security system to help?
And for my father, it must have seemed the perfect way to make money.
He gets paid double: first for the install, and then to cover his client’s tracks.
How could he? And he wanted me to join him. To be a part of this terrible conspiracy.
“I think you should look at this one,” Houdini says. He plucks the top sheet from the stack I haven’t looked at yet.
From his grim tone, I know it’s not going to be good.
Ten seconds later, I set it back down.
Fuck.
Fuck.
It was the agreement to take Sofia out.
“Fuck,” I grit out. I punch the cabinet, welcoming the sting of pain in my hand. “Fuck. I knew it. But… fuck.”
Houdini puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rogue. So damn sorry.”
I turn to look at him. “How could he? I just… It’s all horrible. But Sofia. Shit. He tried to take her out because she made some calls? Because he thought—” I hit the cabinet again. “Fuck.”
“We have enough to turn him, at least,” he replies. “Don’t you think?”
“Yeah.” Taking a deep breath, I work to contain my anger. “We have enough. I think you’re good to get out of here.”
“Are you sure?” He eyes me with concern. “I don’t mind staying. What’s he going to do, call the cops on me for breaking and entering?”
“I need to face him myself,” I reply. “If you guys could just head into town to wait, I’ll call you when I’m ready to head home.”
Home. Ever since Sofia came, it’s felt more like a home instead of just a generic place to sleep and eat. But soon, it’ll be just a sad reminder of what I could have had, if not for my father.
“Okay,” Houdini says. “But if you change your mind—”
“I know.” Standing, I grab his hand and pull him up with me. “If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.”
But I won’t change my mind. This is something I have to do myself.
Once Houdini leaves, I get the number for the police department readied on my phone. Then I settle back in my father’s office chair to wait.
Thirty minutes later, the faint sound of the front door closing reaches me.
Then the buzz of two voices that I immediately recognize as my parents.
Grabbing my phone, I first call the number for the police department and give them a brief overview of the situation—I’d come to check on my parents and noticed my father’s typically locked office open, along with his safe.
When I went in to investigate, I found proof of terrible crimes he’d committed.
And as horrible as I felt, I knew the right thing was to call the police.
They promise to be here in under ten minutes.
Then I call my father. From the front of the house, his phone trills. When he answers, I tell him to come into the office. Immediately.
When he reaches the office doorway and takes in the open safe, his face pales. “What are you doing?” he barks. “Did you break into my safe? Why would you do that? Is this some kind of joke? What’s going on here, Nico?”
I stand, noting with grim satisfaction that I have several inches and at least twenty-five pounds of muscle on him. Not that I think he’d attack me, but still. It lessens the idea of it.
“I came to find the truth,” I tell him. “All of it.”
He scowls. “Is this about that woman again?”
Anger roughens my voice. “Sofia. Her name is Sofia. And she’s a part of it, yes.”
“So you broke into my office to what, find proof of—”
“I found proof of everything!” I slam my hand on the desk. He jumps. “I know what you did. All of it!”
“What are you talking about?” he blusters. My father’s gaze skitters to the safe. “What proof?”
“The proof”—I hold up the sheet of paper with the contents of the deal he made to kill Sofia—“that you tried to have her killed! Three times!”
“What? I did no such—”
“You did!” I roar. “You paid those men to attack her on the street. They beat her! And when that didn’t work, you sent someone to the hospital to try again!”
“She would have ruined everything,” he blurts. “I had to!”
“Ruined what? The deals you made to help people steal? The deals to cover up dozens of crimes? For fucking decades?” My hands fist with rage. “I found all of it. All the proof I need to make sure you never hurt anyone again.”