My Best Friend Burned My Dad's Final Audio Recording in a Bonfire — But My Dog Pulled Out a Hidden Fireproof Box That Uncovered His Family's Wiretap
The university municipal archive room was a silent, cavernous space, smelling of old paper and dust. I moved through the rows of heavy filing cabinets, my phone’s flashlight a narrow beam cutting through the oppressive darkness. Radar, usually so calm, walked close, his soft whines echoing faintly.
Marcus had banned me from the Student Center, but not from the archives. Not yet.
My eyes scanned the meticulously labeled drawers: “City Zoning,” “Land Deeds,” “Public Records.” I was looking for the original notarized land registry files connected to my father’s property. The ones Leo had inadvertently signed off on.
I found the section: “Ellison Holdings, 20XX.” My heart pounded against my ribs.
My fingers brushed against the cool metal of the drawer handle. I pulled it open, the sound echoing in the stillness. Inside, files were stacked neatly, labeled with dates and parcel numbers.
I reached for the thick folder marked with my father’s specific property ID. This was it. The official documents that would show the real chain of ownership, the legal language that could undo Marcus’s claims.
Just as my fingertips made contact with the stiff cardstock, a soft click echoed through the room.
Then another. And another.
The digital door locks. They were engaging.
Panic flared. I spun around, my flashlight beam sweeping across the heavy oak door. The small red light above the keypad was now glowing steadily. Locked.
“Looking for something, Nora?”
Marcus’s voice, amplified and distorted, boomed from a speaker on the wall. It was calm, chillingly composed.
I felt a surge of adrenaline, cold and sharp. “Marcus, what is this?”
“Just a little security update,” he replied, his voice laced with amusement. “Couldn’t have you digging up old skeletons, could I?”
He knew I was here. He must have installed cameras, or someone had tipped him off.
“Let me out of here,” I demanded, my voice trembling. I gripped the file, pulling it free from the drawer.
“Now, why would I do that?” he purred. “You’re a public nuisance, Nora. And quite the risk to university property.”
He paused, and I heard a faint, self-satisfied sigh from the speaker.
“I’ve already called the city police,” he announced, his voice taking on a formal tone. “Reported an active burglary in progress. I suggest you stay calm. They’ll be here soon.”
A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. Burglary. He wasn’t just locking me in; he was setting me up for arrest, to permanently silence me.
I gripped the file tighter, my knuckles white. The police would arrive, and I would be caught red-handed, a blind girl “breaking” into a locked archive. My credibility, already shredded by his medical leaks, would be utterly destroyed.
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