“I really don't think you want to do that, Mr. Adams,” Steven said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm register. “And I think you know why.”

Steven froze, raising his hands instantly, his previous confidence completely shattered. “Wait! It’s a mistake! I’m the victim here! They lured me here—”

“Steven Vance, put your hands behind your back!” Officer Hayes—a veteran cop I recognized from the local precinct—ordered as he vaulted up the stairs, grabbing Steven by the collar and slamming him against the wall.

“I didn't do anything!” Steven screamed, his voice cracking like the scared child he actually was. “My dad is Robert Vance! You can’t touch me! Call my father!”

“Your father is currently being detained at his office, son,” Officer Hayes grunted, slapping heavy steel handcuffs onto Steven’s wrists. “We’ve been monitoring your family’s network for six months. The wiretap on your father's phone picked up your conversation last night about your plans for tonight’s prom.”

I sank onto the steps, the adrenaline draining from my body, leaving me hollow and shaking. David collapsed beside me, burying his face in his hands, weeping silently in utter ruin. Upstairs, in the bathroom, I could hear Kayla’s muffled, ragged breaths, while little Reese stroked her sister's bald head, trying to comfort her.

Officer Hayes turned to me, his expression grim. “Mrs. Adams, we need you, your husband, and your daughters to come down to the station. Now.”

“Is my husband under arrest?” I asked, looking at David’s bent back.

Hayes sighed, glancing down at David with a mix of pity and disgust. “Not yet. But he’s a material witness in a massive federal investigation involving Robert Vance’s money laundering ring. If he cooperates right now, he might walk away with a deal. If he stays silent, he’s going to prison with the rest of them.”

Twenty minutes later, our peaceful suburban driveway looked like a war zone. Red and blue lights flashed against the manicured lawns of our neighbors, who were standing on their porches in bathrobes, holding coffee mugs, whispering and pointing as Steven was shoved into the back of a police cruiser.

Kayla refused to leave her room without a heavy hoodie pulled tight over her head, covering her shaved skull. She wouldn't look at her father. She wouldn't look at me. The only person she would touch was Reese, holding the eight-year-old’s hand like a lifeline.

At the police precinct, we were led into a cold, fluorescent-lit interrogation waiting area. The smell of stale coffee and industrial floor cleaner filled the air.

David sat in the corner, head in his hands, completely broken. I stood by the window, watching the rain start to fall outside, trying to make sense of how our lives had completely disintegrated in less than two hours.

A female detective walked into the room carrying a thick yellow folder. Her badge read Detective Miller.

“Mrs. Adams,” Miller said, gesturing for me to sit. “We’ve reviewed the digital evidence your younger daughter provided, along with the wiretap data we gathered over the last few weeks.”

“Is Steven going to prison?” I demanded, my voice raw.

“Steven is facing multiple felony counts: attempted grand sexual assault, conspiracy, physical abuse, and extortion,” Miller replied flatly. “The bruised photos your little girl took are more than enough to secure a domestic violence injunction immediately.”

I let out a long breath I felt like I’d been holding for years. “Thank God.”

“However,” Detective Miller continued, her tone darkening as she opened the folder, “there is something else you need to see. Something we pulled from Steven’s encrypted phone after we cracked his passcode half an hour ago.”

She slid a printout across the metal table toward me.

It was a transcript of a text message thread from three days ago. The contact name at the top of the thread was saved as “The Inside Source.”

The message read:

“She’s starting to ask questions about the bruises. Make sure the drug dosage is higher on prom night so she doesn't remember anything. I’ll make sure the house is empty after 10 PM.”

My breath hitched in my throat. The sender had shared private details about our house, our security system, and our schedule.

“Who sent this?” I whispered, a terrible, icy dread creeping up my spine. “Who is ‘The Inside Source’?”

Detective Miller leaned forward, her eyes locked onto mine. “The phone number belonged to a burner device activated right here in your neighborhood, Mrs. Adams. And the payment for that burner phone was made using your household credit card.”

I turned slowly to look at David sitting in the corner.

David looked up, his eyes wide with confusion. “Sarah... I swear to God, I didn't send that! I didn't know!”

“It wasn't your husband, Mrs. Adams,” Detective Miller said quietly.

I blinked, thoroughly confused. “Then who?”