Chapter 2
The encrypted messaging app blinked on my phone screen, its anonymous interface the only thing keeping my heart from pounding through my chest. I'd downloaded it three days ago, after discovering Jameson's betrayal. My fingers trembled as I typed:
"Charlie Holmes. I need your help. It's Elle Spencer."
I hesitated before hitting send, knowing this message could change everything. Jameson monitored my calls, my emails, even my text messages. But this app—bought with cash from a small electronics store across town—was my only hope.
The reply came almost instantly.
"Elle? Is it really you? Where have you been all these years?"
Tears blurred my vision as I typed back: "I'm in trouble, Charlie. I need to meet you somewhere safe."
His response was immediate: "The old oak tree by the lake. Tomorrow at dawn. I'll be waiting."
I deleted the conversation, my hand instinctively moving to my belly. Seven months pregnant, and now carrying the child of a monster. The thought made me sick.
---
The park was deserted at dawn, mist rising from the lake's surface like ghostly fingers. I pulled my coat tighter around me, one hand supporting my lower back as I made my way toward the massive oak tree where Charlie and I had carved our initials when we were twelve.
He was already there, his tall figure leaning against the trunk, face lifted to watch the sunrise. When he heard my footsteps, he turned.
"Elle," he whispered, his voice catching.
I stopped a few feet away, suddenly unable to move. Charlie Holmes—the boy who had loved me before his family lost everything—now stood before me, successful and handsome in a tailored suit that couldn't quite disguise the strength beneath.
"Your message," he said softly. "What's happened?"
Something inside me broke. Three years of pretending, of searching for my mother's killer, of living with a man who had betrayed me in the worst possible way—it all came pouring out.
"Jameson," I choked out, my hands pressed against my belly. "He killed my mother. He denied my father a heart transplant. He—"
Charlie crossed the distance between us in two strides, his arms encircling me as I collapsed against him.
"I'll help you," he murmured into my hair. "Whatever you need, Elle. I'll be there."
I pulled back, wiping tears from my face. "How can you help? He's powerful. He has everything."
"Not everything," Charlie said firmly. "Not you."
---
"This is state-of-the-art," Charlie explained, placing a small device no larger than my thumbnail on the table between us. "It'll record every call, every conversation within fifteen feet."
We sat in a private room at a restaurant Charlie owned—a place where Jameson would never think to look for me.
"And this," he continued, sliding a sleek phone across the table, "is encrypted. Untraceable. Use it only for emergencies."
I picked up the tiny recording device, turning it over in my fingers. "What if he finds it?"
"He won't," Charlie assured me. "But if he does—" He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine. "I'll be there."
The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through me—a reminder of what genuine care felt like.
---
Three days later, I slipped the recording device beneath Jameson's desk, my heart hammering so loudly I was certain he would hear it from across the room.
"Looking for something?" he asked, not bothering to look up from his laptop.
"Just my phone," I lied, forcing a smile as I straightened. "I thought I left it here."
He nodded absently, already returning to his work.
That night, I copied files from his computer while he showered—financial records, emails, anything that might contain evidence of his crimes.
The next morning, while Jameson was at work, I searched his office more thoroughly. Behind a row of books on the far wall, my fingers found a small indentation—a safe, cleverly disguised as part of the bookshelf.
I tried several combinations before remembering Sienna's birthday—the date Jameson had once mentioned was special to him.
The safe clicked open.
Inside were photographs—dozens of them—of Sienna Williams. Some were recent, others dated back years. There were love letters too, written in Jameson's precise handwriting, declaring his devotion to her.
But it was the folder labeled "Spencer" that made my blood run cold.
Medical reports. Police statements about my mother's accident. And most damning of all—documentation of payments to Dr. Reed, with explicit instructions to deny Richard Spencer a heart transplant.
My hands shook as I photographed everything with the special camera Charlie had given me—one that would store the images securely and transmit them to his private server.
"Got you," I whispered, carefully replacing everything exactly as I'd found it.
As I closed the safe, my phone buzzed with a text from Charlie:
"Found something you need to see. Meet tonight."
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, my mind racing with possibilities. What else could there be? What other secrets was Jameson hiding?
And how much deeper did this rabbit hole go?