The Final Betrayal
David didn't scream. He didn't rush her. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He didn't dial 911. He tapped a single app—the home security feed he had installed secretly just a week ago after feeling like he was being followed.
He turned the screen toward Sarah.
On the display, grainy black-and-white footage showed Sarah, three hours earlier, talking to a man in a black car parked outside their driveway. She wasn't a victim. She was a collaborator. She was handing over a manila envelope—the deed to their house, the access codes to their accounts.
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The "juice" on the counter wasn't a test of loyalty; it was a way to keep him out of the way while they finished the transaction.
"I wasn't surprised by the glass, Sarah," David said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "I was surprised you thought I was stupid enough to leave you alone with my daughter for the last month."
