Chapter 22: Daddy’s Dirty Little Secret: Chapter 22

I showed up at Dad’s house because I wasn’t going to keep tiptoeing around this anymore. No more guessing, no more waiting for him to bring it up on his own—he wouldn’t. I needed to hear the truth about Victor Hayes straight from him, and I wasn’t leaving until I got it. Every part of me knew something was wrong, and after seeing the ledger and the business card, it wasn’t just bad choices or some passing debt. This was serious. Dangerous. And he might not understand how much it could drag him—and us—under.

The lights were off like the house was empty, which I half expected. Lately, he’d been bouncing between a couple part-time jobs, nothing steady. Delivering things, some light warehouse work when he could get it. Basically, whatever would take him without background checks or long-term contracts. He’d probably say he was just keeping busy if I asked.

I let myself in with my key; the house was quiet. Not suspiciously quiet, just … normal. “Dad?” I called out as I shut the door behind me.

No answer. Just the muffled hum of the fridge and the soft tick of the kitchen clock. I didn’t hear the TV, which was rare. Usually, it was playing old westerns or the same news loop over and over, even when he was gone. Today—nothing.

I wandered farther in, glancing down the hallway toward the back bedrooms. Still nothing. His bed was made, mostly. A couple of empty glasses on the nightstand. No sign of where he’d gone or when he might be back.

Maybe I should’ve waited. Called first. But no—he’d had plenty of time to come clean on his own. Instead, I got bits and pieces, vague assurances, brushed-off questions, and that tight smile he wore when he didn’t want me to dig deeper. It wasn’t working for me. He was in deep and hiding it from me. And now, with nothing to lose, I had to know.

I moved toward his office. The door was slightly open, same as last time. It always looked the same—bookshelves crammed with papers, folders he probably hadn’t looked at in years, a few framed photos pushed to the side like an afterthought. I stepped in and immediately noticed something different.

His computer was on. Not just glowing in sleep mode—actually on. Desktop lit up, mouse blinking softly like someone had just stepped away. No password screen, which wasn’t like last time. I’d been shocked when I found it locked, which made this all the more suspicious. Where had he gone in a hurry?

I sat in his chair without thinking twice. If I was going to get answers, this was where they were hiding.

I clicked open the email tab first. It loaded automatically, already open to a message thread. Subject line: Balance Due. The sender’s email was vague, but I suspected it was Hayes. Didn’t come with a letterhead or signature—the way a man like Hayes would work if he were doing illegal things. Probably untraceable too.

I started reading. At first, it was standard collections speak. Numbers, late notices, interest piling up. But it shifted fast. The emails turned aggressive, layered with threats. Stuff like You don’t want this to get physical, and People get hurt when they think I’m playing games. Another one just said Clock’s ticking, Laurence. You’ve run out of time. I felt my stomach lurch but forced myself to keep scrolling through the nausea. I had to know what was going on.

There were dates and figures listed. Dad owed more than I realized—way more. The loan was tied to the startup money for Next Gen, which he’d already sold. But he hadn’t cleared the debt, just passed the problem along like he was hoping no one would notice. And now someone had noticed—someone who wanted their money back with interest.

I leaned back, trying to make sense of how this all happened. He’d told me the sale went fine. Said he broke even. That was a lie. Or maybe not a total lie—he probably covered the business expenses, sure—but the loans? They were personal. Hayes wasn’t after the company. He was after Dad.

I glanced around the room again. The framed photo of Mom was dusty in the corner. I didn’t think he looked at it anymore.

“You could’ve just told me,” I muttered. “I would’ve helped.”

I didn’t know how to help though. This wasn’t the kind of mess you helped with by loaning someone a few hundred bucks or bringing them dinner. This was serious—illegal—and getting worse by the second.

I closed the email tab carefully, like maybe that would undo it somehow. My hands were colder than they should’ve been. I stared at the desktop background for a while—some stock photo of a mountain lake that didn’t even look like anything he’d pick. Maybe it came with the computer.

I stood slowly, running my palm down the front of my shirt. My fingers itched to call someone—to do something—but I didn’t know what the right thing was yet. What I did know was that when I left that room, I wouldn’t be coming back just to check in. The next time I saw Dad, we were having this conversation for real. Whether he wanted to or not.

I left Dad’s office quietly and pulled the door shut, still unsure what I was going to do. My heart was pounding, but not in that adrenaline way you get when you’re excited or even angry. This was something else. My fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. I kept brushing my palms on my jeans like that would ground me, but all it did was remind me that I was still standing here with no plan.

I walked down the hall slowly, one step at a time, thinking maybe I’d sit at the kitchen table and just … think. Not that I expected an answer to fall out of the ceiling, but I needed a second. Just one second to breathe, to stop my mind from jumping between worst-case scenarios and whatever came after them. I wasn’t going to cry. Not yet.

I turned the corner into the living room just as the back door opened.

It didn’t creak. It didn’t rattle. It opened like it belonged to them.

At first, I thought it might be Dad. My brain reached for that explanation because it was the only one that made sense. But when I turned, it wasn’t Dad at all.

Three men stepped in like they’d done it before. No hesitation. No fumbling. The first one was older, maybe late forties, with short, graying hair and a clean-cut look that didn’t match the moment. His coat was too nice for someone just dropping by. He looked straight at me and smiled in a way that didn’t touch his eyes.

“Hello, Amelia,” he said, as if I’d invited them in.

I froze halfway into the room, the kitchen light still casting a line across the floor behind me.

“Who are you?” I asked, though I already knew. I felt it in my throat, in the knot forming at the base of my spine.

“Is your father home?” he asked casually, looking past me like I wasn’t even there.

“No,” I said, voice thin. I didn’t recognize it.

“Pity.”

The two men behind him were taller, broader, dressed in muted, shapeless clothes. One wore gloves. The other had a thick scar under his chin that caught the light. They didn’t look at me directly. They didn’t need to. Their presence was enough.

“You need to leave,” I said, but it came out shaky. “You can’t be here.”

The man in front took one step in, then another, his shoes soft on the floor.

“We wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t made it necessary,” he said simply.

I backed up two steps, my foot catching the edge of the rug. “I said get out.”

He didn’t even blink. He nodded slightly toward the others. “Hold her.”

One of them moved too fast. His hand grabbed my wrist hard and pulled. I screamed and yanked away, stumbling into the side of the couch, but the second one was already there. He caught my shoulders and shoved me down onto the cushions before I could brace myself. My elbow hit the armrest too hard. Pain flared up my arm.

“Get off me!” I shouted, kicking, twisting, trying to push them away. “Let go—let go of me!”

The man in the blazer crouched to eye level in front of me, his voice calm like we were discussing the weather. “We just need a little message from you,” he said. “Something your father can watch when he gets home.”

“No!” I was crying now, sobbing so hard my shoulders shook. One second I was yelling, the next my face was soaked, my chest heaving like I’d run a marathon in the middle of a blizzard. “Please, don’t do this—please. He doesn’t have anything. I saw the emails. I know. I know how bad it is, but this isn’t the way⁠—”

He didn’t react. He just lifted his phone and tapped the screen. “Camera’s on,” he said. “Let’s make it count.”

One of the men tightened his grip on my arm while the other leaned in closer. My whole body was shaking. My mouth opened, but nothing came out at first except a strangled breath.

“You can’t do this,” I gasped. “You don’t have to do this.”

“You want to stay calm,” the man holding me said quietly. “You really do.”

“I—I can’t—” My throat closed. I could barely see through the tears. Everything was blurred—his face, the light, even the phone. It didn’t matter. I knew what I was supposed to say.

I looked at the camera, trying not to sob, trying to keep my voice from breaking completely. “Tell Daddy Dearest who has you, sweetheart.” His voice was angry and menacing, not at all matching his words. “Tell him what we’ll do if he doesn’t pay what he owes me.” My blood ran cold, goose bumps rising on my arms. This was Victor Hayes?

“Dad,” I stuttered, the word barely audible. “They’re h-here … They’ve t-taken me.”

I sucked in a breath that felt more like sludge than air. My hands were trembling so badly it felt like my whole body was about to come apart. “Please, Daddy,” I continued, every word harder than the last, “they’ll hurt me. Please—just … please fix this.”

He turned his phone away, stopped the recording. I dropped my head forward and cried into my hands, too weak to move, too sick to think. Then the vomit came, bursting up through my mouth onto his shoes and Dad’s carpet. I couldn’t stop it, no matter how much I wanted to. My body lurched and shook, and when it was over, I coughed, choked, and spat the nasty taste out of my mouth.

They didn’t say anything after that. The two men yanked me up again, one gripping my arm, the other walking behind me. I stumbled trying to keep up with their pace, my feet barely catching the floor. The hallway blurred past me, the kitchen light flickering slightly as we passed.

I saw my reflection in the microwave door as we passed it. My cheeks were red, streaked with tears, hair clinging to my face. I didn’t recognize myself.

I didn’t fight them as they opened the back door again. I couldn’t. My legs barely worked.

But somewhere, underneath the fear and the shaking and the mess I’d become in the last five minutes, I was thinking. I was watching. I was memorizing the way the car looked at the end of the driveway. The license plate. The patch on the taller guy’s jacket. The sound of the engine when the door opened.

The car door slammed shut behind me, and before I could even shift my weight, one of them tied my wrists tighter and pulled a gag across my mouth. The seat was cold and stiff under me. My body twisted on instinct, trying to get away, but there was nowhere to go. I couldn’t breathe right. I could barely think.

The man in the front passenger seat tapped something on his phone. The driver stared straight ahead. Neither of them looked back at me. It was like I wasn’t even a person, just cargo.

I pressed my forehead to the back of the seat, shaking, wishing I had never opened Dad’s office door. I should’ve walked away. Pretended I didn’t see the emails. If I had just left it alone, maybe this wouldn’t be happening.

Or I could have asked Xander. He wouldn’t have liked it, but he would’ve done it. He had the money, the influence. He could’ve ended this with one phone call. It wouldn’t have meant anything to him. Just a favor, a transaction. We didn’t have a relationship. Not a real one. I told myself that over and over, but it didn’t stop me from picturing his face. I wanted to believe he’d care. That if he knew, he’d come for me.

But he didn’t know. No one did.

I thought of Dad. What he’d do when he saw the video. Would he panic? Would he finally tell someone the truth?

And then the worst thought landed in the center of my chest.

What if I never saw either of them again?

My hand curled against my stomach. I was going to die. Alone, in the back of a stranger’s car. And my baby would never take a first breath.