Chapter 4 - The Ghost in the Machine
I sank to the dusty concrete floor, clutching the phone with both hands, my eyes glued to the screen.
“I don't have much time, Finn,” my father coughed, pressing a trembling hand to his chest. “Reagan thinks I'm asleep. She's been crushing sleeping pills into my tea for weeks. She wants me docile. She wants me gone.”
A cold fury ignited in my chest.
“It started three years ago,” my father continued on the video. “When the company audits showed millions missing, I was devastated. Reagan brought me the logs. She showed me the digital trail leading directly to your computer terminal. She showed me the offshore accounts under your name.”
He paused, tears welling in his hollow eyes.
“I was a fool, Finnley. A blind, trusting fool. I was so angry, so hurt that my own flesh and blood would steal our family legacy, that I let the police take you. I let the judge sentence you. That is my greatest sin. And I will burn in hell for it.”
“No, Dad,” I whispered to the empty room. “No.”
“Six months into your sentence, I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer,” he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “That's when Carter got sloppy. I caught him arguing on the phone about a margin call. A two-million-dollar gambling debt. How could a jobless kid have that kind of credit?”
The video showed my father lifting a thick stack of papers to the camera.
“I hired a private investigator. A man named Vance. He dug deep. Carter didn't just have debts; he had a gambling addiction. And Reagan... Reagan was feeding his addiction using my company's money. When the auditors got close, they panicked. They used your login credentials—which Reagan stole from your desk—to frame you.”
He set the papers down and leaned closer to the lens.
“In these boxes is every piece of evidence. The forged signatures, the IP logs proving the transfers were made from Reagan's laptop, and the audio recording of Carter bribing the company accountant to testify against you.”
My heart pounded against my ribs like a jackhammer. They hadn't just taken three years of my life. They had stolen my father's final years.
“I wanted to take this to the police,” my father confessed, his voice breaking. “But I got too sick, too fast. Reagan trapped me in the house. She fired my nurses. She controls my phone, my medicine, everything. If she finds out I know, she'll destroy this evidence, and you'll never clear your name.”
He offered a weak, tragic smile.
“I had Thomas, the groundskeeper, sneak these boxes out piece by piece. He's a good man. Trust him.”
The video began to glitch slightly.
“Finnley. Take this evidence to Detective Vance. His card is in the envelope. Destroy them, son. Take back our company. Take back our home. And Finn...”
He looked straight into the camera, looking right into my soul.
“I made Thomas promise to scatter my ashes at the old fishing cabin up in the mountains. Not that depressing cemetery. I'll be waiting for you there. I love you, son. Give 'em hell.”
The screen went black.
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I sat in the silence of Unit 108 for a long time. The fear, the confusion, the sorrow—it all evaporated. Only one emotion remained.
Rage. Cold, calculated rage.
