Chapter 3 - The Face of a Predator
Lauren froze the moment her eyes landed on the metal box in David’s hands. The fake smile vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, calculating blankness. For a few seconds, the only sound was the clicking of the car engine cooling down.
"You shouldn't have been digging around in things that don't concern you, David," Lauren said, her voice dropping all its usual warmth, sounding sharp and metallic.
"Doesn't concern me?!" David slammed the journal onto the hood of her car, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the enclosed garage. "You hid her family from her! You poisoned my daughter! You systematically tortured a little girl because you wanted to erase any memory of my late wife!"
Lauren didn't cry. She didn't beg. Instead, she took a slow step forward, a terrifying, arrogant smirk spreading across her face.
"And who is going to believe you, David?" she whispered sneeringly. "Look at you. You're a warehouse worker who can barely pay the mortgage. Everyone in this town loves me. I volunteer at the school. I bake for the neighborhood block parties. If you show that diary to anyone, I’ll just say you wrote it yourself to frame me because you're mentally unstable since your first wife died."
She took another step closer, her eyes gleaming with malice. "If you file for divorce, I will hire the most expensive lawyer in the state using the joint savings account. I will claim you abused me and Emily. I'll take this house, I’ll take half your meager paycheck, and I will make sure you only see Emily through a glass window at a supervised visitation center. You have no power here."
David felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. She was right about one thing—she had spent years manipulating their social circle. To the world, she was a saint marrying a grieving widower.
"Get out of my sight," David said through gritted teeth, his voice shaking with a dangerous, repressed rage.
"Gladly," Lauren mocked, grabbing her designer purse. "I'm going to spend the night at a hotel. When I come back tomorrow, I expect you to have dinner ready, and I expect an apology. If you want to keep your daughter, you will learn to play by my rules."
She turned on her heel and drove away, leaving David alone in the dim garage.
But Lauren had made one critical mistake. She thought David was weak because he was quiet. She thought his financial status meant he had no resources.
David picked up his phone and dialed a number he hadn't called in three years. It was the number of Sarah’s father—his late wife’s dad, Arthur Vance—a wealthy, retired corporate attorney in Toronto. For years, David thought Arthur hated him because of the lack of communication. Now he knew the truth.
The phone rang three times before an older, tired voice answered. "Hello?"
"Arthur," David said, his voice breaking as a tear finally slipped down his cheek. "It's David. I found the letters, Arthur. I found everything. I need your help. My daughter needs your help."
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There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. When Arthur spoke again, the tiredness was gone, replaced by the fierce, commanding tone of a man ready to protect his blood.
"Tell me everything, David," Arthur ordered. "I’ll have my private jet ready in two hours."
