Police arrived at Dad's house before we did.
Marcus's security car remained at the corner.
Another Bennett Security vehicle sat in the driveway.
For the first time, Dad looked irritated by his own arrangements.
“He got past us.”
Harris corrected him immediately.
“We don't know who took the photograph.”
Dad nodded.
“You're right.”
I appreciated that even anger could be corrected now.
Rachel had sent police an image of the photograph left in her apartment.
It showed me stepping from Dad's car the previous afternoon.
Time stamp absent.
Angle from across the street.
Ordinary enough to terrify me.
Derek could not have taken it.
At the approximate time, he had been meeting with his attorney under documented conditions.
That did not mean he had nothing to do with it.
It meant someone else was involved.
Harris asked Dad's security team for footage.
Marcus brought us into the den.
Four cameras covered the property.
Driveway.
Front walk.
Rear entrance.
Side yard.
None faced directly across the street.
“We avoid recording neighbors' windows,” Marcus explained.
Dad nodded.
“Right policy.”
The street camera showed vehicles passing.
At 3:17, a gray SUV stopped half a block away.
Too distant for a clear plate.
A person stepped out.
Baseball cap.
Phone raised briefly.
Then gone.
Harris paused the image.
“Recognize them?”
“No.”
Dad shook his head.
Marcus enlarged the frame.
Still useless.
Body shape suggested male.
Maybe.
Harris refused to commit.
“We'll canvas.”
I sat on the arm of Dad's chair.
“Could it be Cole?”
“He says no.”
“That isn't proof.”
“No.”
“Vanessa?”
“She was with counsel at that time.”
“Linda?”
Dad looked at me.
I shook my head.
The person looked taller.
Again, not proof.
Harris said, “Derek used multiple people over the years. We need to identify all of them.”
That sentence bothered me.
Multiple people.
How many strangers had participated in my life without my knowledge?
Mara arrived carrying the trust documents.
She had come because the break-in changed the risk picture.
“We should discuss temporary relocation.”
Dad immediately said, “Agreed.”
I didn't.
“No.”
Everyone looked at me.
Dad's expression tightened.
“Emily.”
“I am not disappearing.”
“This isn't about pride.”
“I know.”
Mara said, “Temporary relocation can be sensible.”
“I'll stay somewhere secure. But I'm not leaving town. I'm not abandoning work. I'm not letting Derek create a reality where I'm the one who vanishes.”
Dad started to argue.
Then stopped.
He looked at me carefully.
“What do you want?”
That question again.
The one he kept giving me.
“I want security without surrender.”
Marcus nodded.
“We can do that.”
A serviced apartment owned by Dad's company was available downtown.
Controlled access.
Garage.
No public directory.
I agreed to stay there temporarily.
Dad did not insist on joining me.
That mattered too.
He arranged security.
Then he let me choose the room.
Before we left his house, Harris asked to inspect my car.
A technician arrived with scanning equipment.
I watched from the porch.
Twenty minutes later, he called Harris over.
My stomach dropped.
Under the rear bumper, magnetically attached, was a small black device.
GPS tracker.
Dad's face went white with anger.
“How long?”
The technician bagged it.
“Can't tell here.”
Harris asked whether it transmitted actively.
“Yes.”
“To where?”
“We'll examine it.”
I stared at the empty place beneath the bumper.
I drove that car everywhere.
Dad's house.
Work.
Grocery store.
Doctor.
Derek never needed to ask where I went.
Maybe he already knew.
I remembered every argument about my movements.
Why were you at your father's so long?
Why did you stop at Riverside?
Why did you leave work early?
I had thought he inferred.
Or checked shared location.
Sometimes I turned location sharing off and felt guilty.
He may have had another route.
Mara said, “Do not assume when it was placed.”
I nodded.
Facts.
The technician checked Dad's vehicles too.
Nothing.
My phone went for forensic inspection.
I felt naked without it.
Marcus gave me a temporary device.
By evening, we were in the downtown apartment.
One bedroom.
Small kitchen.
Gray sofa.
No history.
I loved it immediately.
Dad stood by the door.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“I can stay.”
“I know.”
“You can come home.”
“I know.”
He nodded.
Then smiled faintly.
“I'm repeating myself.”
“You're getting forgetful.”
The joke escaped before I thought.
Silence.
Then Dad laughed.
I laughed too.
Harder than the joke deserved.
For ten seconds, Derek did not own the concept of memory.
That felt important.
Dad left at nine.
I locked the door.
Checked it twice.
Then stopped myself before checking a third time.
The apartment was quiet.
I made tea.
Sat on the sofa.
For the first time since my birthday, I was alone by choice.
Not abandoned.
Not isolated.
Alone.
At ten fourteen, the temporary phone rang.
Harris.
“The tracker has an identifier.”
I sat straighter.
“Who bought it?”
“Purchase traced through an online account.”
“Derek?”
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“Northgate paid the subscription, but the account name is Gregory Mills.”
“Who is that?”
“We're checking.”
Another proxy.
Another person.
Harris continued.
“There's something else. The device stored historical location data.”
“How far back?”
“Approximately five months.”
My skin prickled.
“Can you see where I've been?”
“Yes.”
I hated that yes.
“Any locations that stand out?”
“One.”
“What?”
“A residential address you visited repeatedly.”
I frowned.
“I mostly went to Dad's.”
“Not his.”
He gave the street.
I recognized it.
“That's my therapist.”
Dad had encouraged me to see one a year earlier after Mom's death.
Derek knew I went.
He claimed to support it.
“What about it?”
“The tracker shows your car there six times.”
“Yes.”
Harris paused.
“Northgate records show payments to a different private investigator on each of those dates.”
My stomach turned.
“Another investigator?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Gregory Mills.”
The account holder.
“What did he do?”
“We don't know yet.”
I thought of therapy.
The one place I had spoken about Derek more honestly than anywhere else.
Not abuse.
Not at first.
Control.
Arguments.
Fear of disappointing him.
“What was he trying to learn?”
Harris said, “We're finding out.”
I barely slept.
The next morning, Mara came with breakfast.
She found me reading old therapy appointment emails on the temporary laptop.
“Don't investigate yourself into exhaustion.”
“I want dates.”
“We'll get dates.”
“I already have them.”
I showed her.
Six sessions.
Same six dates Harris mentioned.
Mara's expression changed.
“Did Derek ever ask what you discussed?”
“Constantly.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Almost nothing.”
That had caused arguments.
Therapy is private.
Derek said marriage shouldn't have secrets.
He once accused my therapist of turning me against him.
I had laughed.
Maybe he hadn't been joking.
Harris called at eleven.
Gregory Mills had been located.
Former process server.
Occasional private investigator operating without a current license.
He admitted Derek hired him.
“To follow me?”
“Yes.”
“To the therapist?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Harris paused.
“To photograph anyone you met before or after appointments.”
I frowned.
“I didn't meet anyone.”
“That frustrated Derek.”
A strange satisfaction moved through me.
Even surveillance had failed to produce the betrayal he expected.
“What else?”
“Mills says Derek wanted access to discarded material.”
My stomach tightened.
“What material?”
“Office trash.”
Mara stood.
“My therapist's trash?”
“Possibly.”
“That would contain protected information.”
“We're investigating whether he obtained anything.”
I felt sick.
The apartment suddenly seemed too small.
Harris continued.
“Mills also says Derek gave him a photograph of a man and asked him to determine whether you were meeting him.”
“What man?”
“We sent the image to Mara.”
Her email arrived.
She opened it.
Dad.
A younger photograph.
Taken at my mother's funeral.
I stared.
“He thought I was secretly meeting my father?”
Harris said, “Mills says Derek described the man as someone exerting improper influence over you.”
Mara whispered, “He was trying to turn ordinary contact into evidence.”
Yes.
Everything could become evidence if framed badly enough.
A father.
A therapist.
A purchase.
A tear.
A forgotten sentence.
Harris said Mills had surrendered messages.
One from Derek stood out.
Need proof she's being coached.
Another:
If Bennett is behind this, I need something showing she's dependent on him.
Dad wasn't behind anything then.
I had barely told him there were problems.
Derek was preparing to blame him before Dad knew there was a battle.
At noon, Mara received a court filing.
Derek wanted modification of the financial restrictions.
Attached was a new declaration.
Not Linda.
Not Vanessa.
A man named Gregory Mills.
My stomach dropped.
“He signed for Derek?”
Mara read.
Then frowned.
“No.”
“What?”
“This isn't supporting Derek.”
She turned the screen.
Mills had filed through his own attorney.
The declaration stated Derek hired him to monitor me and specifically requested evidence that could be used to portray my relationship with Dad as unhealthy dependence.
At the bottom, Mills described one final instruction.
If Emily leaves the marital home, notify Derek immediately and do not approach her.
I read it twice.
“That sounds almost restrained.”
Mara shook her head.
“Read the next sentence.”
I did.
Derek told Mills that if I moved into Dad's house, the “medical plan” would have to happen immediately.
My skin went cold.
“What medical plan?”
Mills claimed he did not know.
But he remembered Derek giving him an address.
The residential psychiatric facility.
Three states away.
Dad arrived twenty minutes later.
We showed him.
He read silently.
Then looked at me.
“He expected you to come to me.”
“Yes.”
“And he had a plan for when you did.”
“Yes.”
My temporary phone rang.
Harris.
His voice was clipped.
“We have the hair results.”
I stood.
“And?”
“DNA comparison indicates the sample is yours.”
Dad closed his eyes.
Harris continued.
“Toxicology detected repeated exposure to lorazepam over the tested segment.”
I gripped the table.
“Repeated?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Hair testing can't reliably give us an exact count.”
“But more than once.”
“The pattern is consistent with multiple exposures.”
The room went quiet.
The possibility became evidence.
Not yet proof of who administered it.
But proof that I had been exposed.
I whispered, “I never had a prescription.”
“We confirmed that.”
Mara asked, “Can you connect Derek?”
“We're building that connection.”
I looked at the apartment door.
At the lock.
At the clean room.
For the first time, the fear changed shape.
Derek had not only manipulated what I remembered.
He may have manipulated whether I could remember at all.
Harris continued.
“And Emily?”
“Yes?”
“We recovered video from the Northgate mailbox.”
My throat tightened.
“Of Derek picking up the medication?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Harris added one more sentence.
“More than once.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: The Pharmacy Footage Connected Derek to the Pills, but a Recording From Our Kitchen Revealed Why He Needed Me Confused
My Father Walked Into My Birthday Dinner, Looked at My Face Once, and Asked Everyone Else to Stop Talking
Part 15 of 28
