Page 42 of Daddy's Dirty Little Secret
22
AMELIA
Ishowed up at Dad’s house because I wasn’t going to keep tiptoeing around this anymore. No more guessing, no more waiting for him to bring it up on his own—he wouldn’t. I needed to hear the truth about Victor Hayes straight from him, and I wasn’t leaving until I got it. Every part of me knew something was wrong, and after seeing the ledger and the business card, it wasn’t justbad choicesor some passing debt. This was serious. Dangerous. And he might not understand how much it could drag him—and us—under.
The lights were off like the house was empty, which I half expected. Lately, he’d been bouncing between a couple part-time jobs, nothing steady. Delivering things, some light warehouse work when he could get it. Basically, whatever would take him without background checks or long-term contracts. He’d probably say he was justkeeping busyif I asked.
I let myself in with my key; the house was quiet. Not suspiciously quiet, just…normal. “Dad?” I called out as I shut the door behind me.
No answer. Just the muffled hum of the fridge and the soft tick of the kitchen clock. I didn’t hear the TV, which was rare.Usually, it was playing old westerns or the same news loop over and over, even when he was gone. Today—nothing.
I wandered farther in, glancing down the hallway toward the back bedrooms. Still nothing. His bed was made, mostly. A couple of empty glasses on the nightstand. No sign of where he’d gone or when he might be back.
Maybe I should’ve waited. Called first. But no—he’d had plenty of time to come clean on his own. Instead, I got bits and pieces, vague assurances, brushed-off questions, and that tight smile he wore when he didn’t want me to dig deeper. It wasn’t working for me. He was in deep and hiding it from me. And now, with nothing to lose, I had to know.
I moved toward his office. The door was slightly open, same as last time. It always looked the same—bookshelves crammed with papers, folders he probably hadn’t looked at in years, a few framed photos pushed to the side like an afterthought. I stepped in and immediately noticed something different.
His computer was on. Not just glowing in sleep mode—actually on. Desktop lit up, mouse blinking softly like someone had just stepped away. No password screen, which wasn’t like last time. I’d been shocked when I found it locked, which made this all the more suspicious. Where had he gone in a hurry?
I sat in his chair without thinking twice. If I was going to get answers, this was where they were hiding.
I clicked open the email tab first. It loaded automatically, already open to a message thread. Subject line:Balance Due. The sender’s email was vague, but I suspected it was Hayes. Didn’t come with a letterhead or signature—the way a man like Hayes would work if he were doing illegal things. Probably untraceable too.
I started reading. At first, it was standard collections speak. Numbers, late notices, interest piling up. But it shifted fast. The emails turned aggressive, layered with threats. Stuff likeYoudon’t want this to get physical, andPeople get hurt when they think I’m playing games. Another one just saidClock’s ticking, Laurence. You’ve run out of time.I felt my stomach lurch but forced myself to keep scrolling through the nausea. I had to know what was going on.
There were dates and figures listed. Dad owed more than I realized—way more. The loan was tied to the startup money for Next Gen, which he’d already sold. But he hadn’t cleared the debt, just passed the problem along like he was hoping no one would notice. And now someone had noticed—someone who wanted their money back with interest.
I leaned back, trying to make sense of how this all happened. He’d told me the sale went fine. Said he broke even. That was a lie. Or maybe not a total lie—he probably covered the business expenses, sure—but the loans? They were personal. Hayes wasn’t after the company. He was after Dad.
I glanced around the room again. The framed photo of Mom was dusty in the corner. I didn’t think he looked at it anymore.
“You could’ve just told me,” I muttered. “I would’ve helped.”
I didn’t know how to help though. This wasn’t the kind of mess you helped with by loaning someone a few hundred bucks or bringing them dinner. This was serious—illegal—and getting worse by the second.
I closed the email tab carefully, like maybe that would undo it somehow. My hands were colder than they should’ve been. I stared at the desktop background for a while—some stock photo of a mountain lake that didn’t even look like anything he’d pick. Maybe it came with the computer.
I stood slowly, running my palm down the front of my shirt. My fingers itched to call someone—to do something—but I didn’t know what the right thing was yet. What I did know was that when I left that room, I wouldn’t be coming back justto check in. The next time I saw Dad, we were having this conversation for real. Whether he wanted to or not.
I left Dad’s office quietly and pulled the door shut, still unsure what I was going to do. My heart was pounding, but not in that adrenaline way you get when you’re excited or even angry. This was something else. My fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. I kept brushing my palms on my jeans like that would ground me, but all it did was remind me that I was still standing here with no plan.
I walked down the hall slowly, one step at a time, thinking maybe I’d sit at the kitchen table and just…think. Not that I expected an answer to fall out of the ceiling, but I needed a second. Just one second to breathe, to stop my mind from jumping between worst-case scenarios and whatever came after them. I wasn’t going to cry. Not yet.
I turned the corner into the living room just as the back door opened.
It didn’t creak. It didn’t rattle. It opened like it belonged to them.
At first, I thought it might be Dad. My brain reached for that explanation because it was the only one that made sense. But when I turned, it wasn’t Dad at all.
Three men stepped in like they’d done it before. No hesitation. No fumbling. The first one was older, maybe late forties, with short, graying hair and a clean-cut look that didn’t match the moment. His coat was too nice for someone just dropping by. He looked straight at me and smiled in a way that didn’t touch his eyes.
“Hello, Amelia,” he said, as if I’d invited them in.
I froze halfway into the room, the kitchen light still casting a line across the floor behind me.
“Who are you?” I asked, though I already knew. I felt it in my throat, in the knot forming at the base of my spine.
“Is your father home?” he asked casually, looking past me like I wasn’t even there.
