Richard raised his leather belt high above his head. My eight-year-old son Ethan cowered in the corner, trembling and covering his face with his arms. I'd come to pick Ethan up for our weekend visit. The front door was slightly ajar. I'd walked in quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone. Instead, I walked straight into my worst nightmare.

I didn't sleep at all that night.

I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the recorder.

One voice said Sarah was a victim.

Another said she was the mastermind.

Both sounded real.

Both could be lies.

Ethan woke up early. He rubbed his eyes and looked around, confused for a moment. Then he saw me and smiled.

"Dad."

"Hey, buddy," I said, forcing a smile. "You want some breakfast?"

"Pancakes?"

"Pancakes it is."

I made pancakes. Ethan ate three of them, covered in syrup. He seemed happy. Carefree.

For a little while, anyway.

After breakfast, I called Harold. I told him about Sarah's visit. About the recording. About the mysterious voice at the end.

Harold was quiet for a long time.

"This is getting complicated," he said.

"Tell me about it."

"I'll have the recording analyzed by an expert," he said. "See if it's been edited or staged. In the meantime, don't go to that warehouse. It's too dangerous."

"I have to go," I said. "If there's a chance that voice is telling the truth—"

"And if it's a trap?" Harold said. "Sarah could have set the whole thing up. To get you alone. To get rid of you."

He was right. It could be a trap.

But what if it wasn't?

What if there was someone out there who knew the truth? Someone who could help me?

"I'll be careful," I said.

"David—"

"I have to know, Harold. For Ethan."

He sighed. "Okay. But I'm sending someone with you. A private investigator I work with. He's good. He'll stay back, keep an eye on things. Make sure you're safe."

"Thanks."

"Also," Harold said, "the expert I spoke to about those photos from the hearing? He got back to me. They're real. The dates check out. But they're not what they seem."

"What do you mean?"

"The bruises in the photos," he said. "They're consistent with a fall. From a bike, probably. Not abuse. Sarah presented them out of context. Made them look like abuse when they were really just an accident."

I felt a wave of relief.

So Sarah had lied about the photos. But they weren't evidence of abuse. Just evidence of her desperation.

"Can we use that against her?" I asked.

"Absolutely," Harold said. "It proves she's willing to manipulate evidence to get what she wants."

We talked for a few more minutes. Then I hung up.

I spent the rest of the day with Ethan. We went to the park. We played video games. We watched a movie.

I tried to act normal. For his sake.

But my mind was on the warehouse. On the mysterious voice. On what I might find out.

At 9 PM, I told Ethan I had to go out for a little while. A friend of mine was going to stay with him.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Just some grown-up business," I said. "I'll be back soon. Okay?"

He nodded, but he looked worried.

My friend Mike arrived. He was a big guy, a former marine. I trusted him with my life.

"Keep him safe," I said.

"Always," Mike said.

I left.

The old warehouse on River Street was in a bad part of town. Abandoned. Boarded up. The kind of place where bad things happened.

I parked a block away. I looked around. Harold's PI was supposed to be nearby, but I didn't see him.

I got out of the car and walked toward the warehouse.

My heart was pounding. My hands were shaking.

I told myself I was being stupid. That this was a trap.

But I had to know.

I found a broken window and climbed inside.

The warehouse was dark. Full of old crates and machinery. Dust covered everything.

"Hello?" I called out.

My voice echoed.

No answer.

I walked deeper into the warehouse. My phone's flashlight cut through the darkness.

"I'm here," I said. "Just like you asked. Alone."

Still no answer.

I was about to turn around and leave when I heard a sound.

Footsteps.

Coming from the shadows.

A figure stepped into the light.

It wasn't Sarah.

It wasn't Richard.

It was a man I'd never seen before.

He was in his fifties, with gray hair and a scar running down his left cheek. He was wearing a dark suit. He looked like he'd seen a lot of violence in his life.

"David Carter," he said. His voice was the same one from the recording. Cold. Professional.

"Who are you?" I said.

"My name is Vincent," he said. "I work for Sarah."

I felt the blood drain from my face.

It was a trap.

"Relax," Vincent said. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help you."

"Why would you help me?" I said. "You work for Sarah."

"Used to work for Sarah," he corrected. "She owes me money. A lot of money. And she refuses to pay."

He walked closer. I tensed, ready to fight.

"I know the truth about Sarah," he said. "Everything. And I'm willing to tell you. For a price."

"What price?"

"$50,000," he said. "And immunity for anything I might have done while working for her."

"I don't have $50,000."

"Then you'll never know the truth," he said. "And Sarah will win. She'll get custody of Ethan. She'll get the insurance money. And you'll rot in prison."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folder. He tossed it at my feet.

"That's a sample," he said. "Proof I'm telling the truth."

I bent down and picked up the folder. I opened it.

Inside were documents. Bank records. Emails. Photos.

Photos of Sarah and Richard together. Planning. Laughing.

Emails where Sarah talked about getting rid of me. About framing me for abuse.

Bank records showing large withdrawals. Payments to Richard. Payments to someone else.

And a contract.

A contract between Sarah and a man I didn't recognize.

For my murder.

I stared at the documents. My hands were shaking so bad I could barely hold them.

Sarah hadn't just been abused.

She'd planned everything.

The abuse. The framing. The murder.

All of it.

And Richard hadn't manipulated her.

They'd been partners.

"This is just the beginning," Vincent said. "There's more. A lot more. Including proof that Sarah was the one who really hurt Ethan. Long before Richard came along."

He leaned against a crate.

"So what's it going to be, David?" he said. "Do you want the truth? Or do you want to lose everything?"

I looked at the documents in my hand.

This was real.

I could feel it.

"I don't have $50,000," I said again.

"Then get it," Vincent said. "Or find another way to pay me. I don't care how. Just have it by Friday. Or I sell everything I have to Sarah. And then you'll really be in trouble."

He turned to leave.

"Wait," I said. "Why should I trust you? You could be making all this up."

Vincent stopped. He turned back to me.

"Because if I was lying," he said, "you'd already be dead."

He smiled. It was a cold, empty smile.

"And one more thing," he said. "Don't go to the police. If you do, I'll know. And I'll destroy everything. Then you'll have nothing."

He walked back into the shadows.

I heard his footsteps fade.

Then silence.

I stood there in the dark, the folder in my hand, my world shattered.

Sarah was worse than I'd ever imagined.

She was a monster.