Chapter 5 - THE DEVIL'S CODEMy hands trembled as I stared at the red lettering on the hidden safe.
C-L-A-R. It was missing the last letter of my name.
Grant had set this safe up long before he turned my life into a living hell. Was this where the third canister’s ignition key was hidden? Or was this another trap left behind by a family of sociopaths?
I raised my hand to the keypad. I pressed the digits corresponding to my name: 3-5-2-7-2 (C-L-A-R-A).
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
RED LIGHT.
The keypad flashed red. A small digital screen above the keys lit up, displaying a single line of text: "WHO OWNS YOUR BREATH?"
A sickening chill ran down my spine. That was the phrase Grant used to whisper into my ear whenever he choked me into unconsciousness. “Who owns your breath, Clara? Say it. Say my name.”
My stomach twisted into knots. The trauma of those eighteen months rushed back like a tidal wave—the feeling of air being cut off, the darkness closing in, the terrifying realization that my life was completely in his hands. He wanted me to enter his name to open the safe. Even from a federal prison cell, he wanted me to bow to him.
I stared at the screen. “No,” I whispered to the empty room. “Not anymore.”
Instead of typing GRANT, I looked closer at the keypad. I noticed faint grease marks on three specific numbers: 0, 4, 2.
04/02. April 2nd.
It wasn't his name. It was the date I was admitted to the emergency room last year after he broke two of my ribs—the date I had lied to the doctors and said I fell down the stairs. That was the day I had secretly decided to fight back.
I entered: 0-4-0-2.
CLICK. WHIRRRRR.
The heavy iron door popped open three inches.
I took a deep breath, pulled the door open, and looked inside.
There was no biological weapon key inside. No USB drives. No cash.
Inside sat a single, old-fashioned leather-bound diary with yellowed pages, along with a small silver key attached to a brass tag. The tag was stamped with an address: 742 OAKRIDGE DRIVE, APT 4B.
I picked up the diary and opened the first page. The handwriting was neat, elegant, and instantly recognizable.
It wasn't Grant’s. It wasn't my father’s.
It belonged to Celeste Sterling—Grant’s mother.
I flipped to a page dated twenty years ago:
"Arthur Montgomery came to the house again today. He and my husband have completed the first phase of the Ares transfer. Arthur is paranoid. He believes the government is onto him. He threatened to kill my son if we ever speak of this. If anything happens to us, I have hidden the master ledger and the original contracts at the Oakridge apartment. Lord forgive me for what we have done to our children."
I collapsed onto the floor, clutching the diary to my chest.
The narrative was shifting rapidly. Grant wasn't the mastermind. He was the product of two monster fathers—Arthur Montgomery and Richard Sterling. Grant had been raised in a world of blackmail, violence, and terror, turned into a monster by a father who threatened to kill him and a father-in-law who controlled every string.
Grant’s abuse of me wasn't just random cruelty; it was his twisted, psychotic way of trying to take control over the daughter of the man who had ruined his life.
My phone chimed with a text message. It was from an unlisted number:
"FBI AGENT VANCE IS ON HIS WAY TO YOUR HOUSE. DO NOT TRUST HIM. HE WORKS FOR YOUR FATHER. LEAVE NOW."
Before I could digest the message, the loud sound of gravel crunching under tires echoed from the driveway outside. I rushed to the window and pulled back the curtain.
May you like
Three black SUVs pulled up to the front doors. Agent Vance stepped out, but he wasn't wearing his tactical gear or carrying a warrant. He was wearing a dark suit, and beside him, stepping out of the passenger seat, was my father.
They weren't here to protect me. They were here to clean up the evidence.
