Chapter 12 - THE RECORDING
We escaped through a back door.
Kane's men surrounded the building.
Daniel led us through an underground drainage system.
At the end was a small control room.
He activated an old computer.
"This is the original archive backup."
The screen came alive.
Thousands of files.
He opened one labeled:
WINTER HOUSE — FINAL NIGHT.
The video appeared.
I watched my eighteen-year-old self standing in the garage.
My father argued with a man.
Victor Kane stood behind him.
Then Sheriff Miller's predecessor entered.
He had a gun.
He raised it toward Dad.
Dad fired first.
The man fell.
But the recording continued.
The fallen man wasn't dead.
He whispered:
"Your son."
Dad turned.
The man said:
"Kane knows about Michael."
Then Kane shot him.
I watched in horror.
Dad had fired to save his own life.
Kane had finished the murder.
My father had been blamed because he had pulled the first trigger.
Then another figure entered.
Mom.
She took the evidence.
She looked directly at the camera.
And said:
"If anything happens to my children, burn everything."
The video ended.
I looked at Dad.
"I'm sorry."
He shook his head.
"You don't owe me an apology."
Then Daniel opened another file.
This one contained bank records.
Payments.
Millions.
Names.
Kane wasn't just corrupt.
He had been laundering money through charities, construction companies and political campaigns.
But one name appeared more often than any other.
Vanessa.
I looked at my sister.
She stepped backward.
"I didn't know about the murders."
"How much did Kane pay you?"
She cried.
"Seven hundred thousand."
The room went silent.
I expected Dad to scream.
Instead, he walked toward her.
"You sold your family for money."
Vanessa broke down.
"I thought I was saving you."
Dad shook his head.
"You stopped being my daughter the day you decided your brother's life had a price."
Vanessa looked at me.
"I'm sorry."
I didn't know if I could forgive her.
Then the computer beeped.
An incoming message.
YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES.
Kane's voice played through the speakers.
"Bring me the archive."
Daniel looked at the map.
"He found the control room."
We had ten minutes.
But I noticed something.
The archive had one final folder.
It was password protected.
The title was:
MICHAEL BENNETT — MEMORY.
I opened it.
The password prompt asked one question.
What did Grandpa call the Christmas tree?
I remembered.
A childhood phrase.
I typed it.
The folder opened.
Inside was one photograph.
And a message.
Michael,
If you ever discover this, the truth is not in the archive.
It is beneath the tree.
I looked at everyone.
"What tree?"
May you like
Dad whispered:
"The Christmas tree at home."
