Chapter 6 - The Confession Tape
"She's alive! Get an ambulance here now!" I screamed into my cell phone, dropping to my knees beside my mother and frantically untying the gag around her mouth.
My mother gasped for air, coughing violently, her eyes wide with terror as she clutched my arms. "Sarah... get out... it's a trap... he has..."
Before she could finish her sentence, the heavy wooden back door slammed shut with a thunderous crash. The deadbolt slid into place.
I spun around, putting myself between my mother and the kitchen archway.
Step by slow step, a tall figure emerged from the darkness of the pantry. He wasn't wearing a mask. He didn't need to.
It was Arthur, my late husband’s older brother—my former brother-in-law, who had supposedly moved to Canada three years ago after the tragic work accident that killed my first husband.
"Arthur?" I breathed, my mind shattering into a million pieces. "You... you're dead. They said you died in a logging accident up north."
Arthur chuckled, a dark, hollow sound, holding a digital voice recorder in his hand. "Death is such a convenient concept, Sarah. Especially when you want to disappear and start a franchise."
"Franchise?" My voice was barely a squeak.
"Ryan, me, and a few others," Arthur smiled coldly, stepping into the fluorescent light. "We find vulnerable women with little girls, inject ourselves into their lives, and run a private, underground ring. Do you have any idea how much wealthy clients pay for unrecorded access to children through compromised plumbing and bathroom setups? Ryan was sloppy. He got caught because he fell for you. But me? I've been watching you since day one."
He pressed play on the voice recorder.
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To my horror, I heard my own voice—pieced together from old phone calls and voicemails, edited with chilling precision—saying: "I want to get rid of my daughter... she's ruining my marriage... please help me make her disappear."
"With this audio file, the police are going to arrest you for conspiracy and child trafficking, Sarah," Arthur whispered, raising a heavy iron skillet he had picked off the counter. "And by morning, you and your little girl will have staged a tragic murder-suicide in the bathtub."
