Chapter 3 - The Digital Ghost
The hospital room was completely silent once they hauled Arthur away.
Detectives arrived an hour later.
Detective Sarah Miller, a woman with sharp eyes and a soft voice, pulled a chair right between Chloe’s bed and mine.
"Maya, Chloe. I need you to be brave for just a little while longer," she said. "Can you tell me what happened tonight?"
My mother was sitting in a separate interrogation room down the hall, likely repeating the lie Arthur had drilled into her head.
I looked at Chloe. She nodded encouragingly.
I didn't just tell Detective Miller what happened tonight.
I told her about the last three years.
I told her about the curtains, the television, the wedding ring.
Detective Miller took notes, but I could see the skepticism in her eyes. It was a wild story. Identical twins, a sadistic stepfather, a mother who turned a blind eye.
It sounded like a movie, and without physical evidence other than our bruises, Arthur's high-priced lawyers would try to twist it back onto us.
"Maya," Detective Miller said gently. "Your mother is claiming it was a fall. Arthur is claiming you two have a history of self-harm and inventing stories. Do you have anything, anyone, who can corroborate your side?"
I slowly pushed myself up on my pillows. My ribs screamed in agony.
"Detective," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Do you have a laptop?"
She looked confused, but pulled a tablet from her bag.
"Go to the cloud storage website," I instructed.
She typed in the URL.
"Username: ThomasFinchLegacy. Password: FearlessTwins."
I watched her log in.
The screen loaded, displaying hundreds of audio files.
They were perfectly categorized. By date. By time.
"What is this?" she asked, her brow furrowing.
"Three months ago, I found an old phone," I explained. "I hid it under the floorboards by the heating vent in the living room. It caught every sound."
Detective Miller clicked on the most recent file.
The audio began to play.
First, the sound of the television blasting a game show.
Then, Arthur's cold, calculating voice.
“Which one of you wants to go first tonight? Chloe? Maya?”
Then, the sickening sound of flesh being struck.
Chloe's screams.
My mother's quiet weeping in the background.
Detective Miller abruptly paused the recording.
Her face was completely pale. The professional detachment was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated horror.
She looked at me, then at Chloe.
"He's never getting out," she whispered fiercely. "I promise you. He is never, ever getting out."
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Our father had been dead for five years.
But tonight, through the digital ghost of his cloud account, he had finally saved us.
