Chapter 4 - The Ledger of Horrors
Inside the envelope was a thick, leather-bound journal and a VHS camcorder tape labeled SUMMER 1999.
I pulled out the journal. The handwriting inside was frantic, sharp, and slanted—the writing of a teenage girl living in a nightmare.
July 14, 1999: She did it again today. Julian passed out on the shed floor because it was 105 degrees inside. I tried to unlock the door with the spare key I stole from her purse, but she caught me. She took my food privileges for three days. She keeps a master ledger in her bedroom safe. She writes down every time she starves us, every time she uses the strap, every time she pays off Dr. Gable at the urgent care clinic to sign off on the bruises as 'sports injuries.' Dr. Gable knows. He’s taking money from Dad's trust account to keep his mouth shut.
August 2, 1999: I found out what she did to Dad. Dad didn't die of stomach cancer. He was getting better after the chemotherapy, but Victoria was managing his medication. I found the empty bottles of digitalis in her sewing room locked cabinet. She was slipping extra doses into his soups to slow down his heart. She wanted the trust fund before the divorce went through. If anyone reads this, look under the floorboards in the shed. I hid the original prescription logs and the tapes from the security camera Dad installed in the hallway before he got too sick to walk.
I dropped the journal onto the table as if it were on fire.
"Julian..." I whispered, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard it was painful. "Your father... your mother didn't just abuse you and Sarah."
Julian stared at the journal, his eyes wide with unadulterated terror. "She... she killed my father?"
"She poisoned him," I said, reading the words again to make sure my mind wasn't playing tricks on me. "And the doctor who treated you and signed off on your injuries—Dr. Gable—was covering for her."
"Dr. Gable died five years ago," Julian gasped, his hands shaking frantically as he pulled his hair. "His practice was taken over by the regional health system... but the records! The archive records are still kept at the central medical registry downtown!"
Before we could process the horrifying weight of Sarah's journal, my phone buzzed on the counter.
It was a text message from an unknown number.
I opened it.
It was a video file. I pressed play.
The screen lit up with a low-resolution video recording taken from outside our house just ten minutes ago. It showed my car parked in the driveway, the lit window of Elena's bedroom, and a clear shot through our kitchen window showing Julian and me sitting at the table with the open lockbox.
Below the video was a text message:
You have three hours to hand over Sarah’s envelope and leave Columbus with your daughter, Chloe. If you do not bring the contents to my house by midnight, I will file a formal complaint with Child Protective Services reporting that Julian beat Elena in a fit of rage, using his history of childhood psychiatric instability as proof. The county prosecutor is my second cousin. Who do you think they will believe? A respected church elder and philanthropist... or a broken man whose own mother had him institutionalized as a teenager? Bring me the envelope. Or I take your daughter.
I stared at the screen, my blood running as cold as liquid nitrogen.
May you like
Victoria hadn't gone home to cry or repent.
She had gone home to declare war.
