I had always thought the gesture looked possessive.
I unfolded the note.
The handwriting was shaky.
If our mom disappears, please give this to the police.
Do not give it to Rick.
Do not tell him we put it here.
My hands went cold.
I looked toward their house.
The curtains were closed.
Rick’s black truck was not in the driveway.
Mia and Ben had already disappeared around the corner with their trash bag.
I carried the plastic bag inside and locked my door.
Then I stood in my kitchen, staring at the flash drive.
Part of me wanted to call the police immediately.
Another part was worried that doing so might put the children in greater danger.
I read the note again.
If our mom disappears.
Not if she gets hurt.
Not if she needs help.
Disappears.
I plugged the drive into an old laptop I rarely used.
There were seven folders.
PHOTOS.
RECORDINGS.
MONEY.
RICK’S TRUCK.
MOM’S PHONE.
DATES.
READ FIRST.
I opened the final folder.
Inside was a video.
Mia appeared on the screen.
She sat on the floor of what looked like her bedroom closet. The light was dim, and she kept glancing toward the door.
“If you’re watching this,” she whispered, “we either got caught or Mom didn’t come home.”
My stomach dropped.
Ben sat beside her, hugging his knees.
Mia continued.
“Our stepdad’s name is Richard Doyle. Everyone calls him Rick. He hurts our mom, but he tells people she falls because she takes medicine.”
Ben whispered, “She doesn’t.”
Mia nodded.
