Chapter 6
The digital investigator placed my flash drive in a clear evidence sleeve before he touched his laptop.
“I’m making a forensic copy,” he said. “We don’t work from the original.”
His name was Daniel Cho. He sat across from me in Marisol’s conference room, where the blinds softened the hard afternoon light. Thomas occupied the chair beside the door, far enough away that I didn’t feel watched. He had greeted me, set a paper cup of coffee near my hand, and asked nothing.
Daniel compared the copied files with records the smart-lock vendor had preserved after Marisol’s formal request. Colored rows filled his screen.
“The flash drive data is incomplete,” he said. “But the entries it contains match the vendor’s cloud records. Device identifiers, timestamps, command history.”
Marisol leaned forward. “Show us the dressing suite.”
Daniel filtered the list. One line appeared from the evening of the foundation gala rehearsal.
REMOTE LOCK COMMAND.
Authorized user: Graham Whitaker.
Destination device: dressing suite.
My fingers tightened around the coffee cup. I remembered the muffled music below, the doorknob refusing to turn, and Graham’s voice through the wood telling me I needed time to compose myself.
“So he locked it from his phone?” Marisol asked.
“From an authenticated account associated with his phone,” Daniel said carefully. “The records support that conclusion. They don’t tell us who physically held the device.”
His caution steadied me more than certainty would have.
He opened another report. My personal entry code had been disabled eleven times in seven weeks, usually for periods between twenty minutes and three hours. Graham’s administrator code remained active throughout.
I named the first date before Daniel finished reading it. “That was the morning I tried to drive to the pharmacy.”
Then another. The church luncheon I never reached. A haircut I canceled from the driveway. The afternoon I had put my suitcase in the trunk, only to find Graham standing behind me before I could close it.
Daniel shifted to the home-network records. Doorbell alerts and motion notifications from two interior cameras had been routed to Graham’s account. The receiving device was listed by model and registration details.
His black smartphone.
I could see it glowing in his hand near my front door, as clearly as if we were still in the foyer.
“He always appeared,” I said. “Whenever I tried to leave alone.”
Thomas’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent.
Daniel displayed timestamps from the front hall and kitchen cameras. On four dates, an alert was followed within minutes by a remote lock change or an administrator login. The records didn’t include every video file. Some footage had been deleted, and Daniel said recovery wasn’t guaranteed.
“But the notification history survived,” he added. “That history is independently stored.”
Marisol closed her legal pad. “This supports a petition for temporary protection, along with revocation of the power of attorney. It may also help us seek preservation of the remaining footage.”
“What happens when we file?”
“Graham will be served. The filing could become public before the gala. I can’t promise otherwise.”
The room grew very quiet. Public knowledge had frightened me for months because Graham had taught me to imagine his version arriving first: devoted son, confused mother, unfortunate family matter.
I looked at Thomas. He didn’t nod or urge me forward.
“What do you want?” he asked.
The question left the decision where it belonged.
I slid the copied dressing-suite key onto the table beside the sealed flash drive.
“File it,” I told Marisol. My voice came out level. “Ask for the protective order, revoke his authority, and preserve every record that’s left.”
Marisol held my gaze. “Once he’s served, he may react quickly.”
May you like
“I know.”
Outside the blinds, sunlight flashed across a passing car. I drew one slow breath, then signed my name. For the first time, Graham’s records were no longer merely proof of where I had been trapped. They marked the place where I stopped helping him hide it.
