“There’s something else, isn’t there?” she asked gently.
Kiara’s eyes flicked toward her coat.
“There’s… a flash drive,” she whispered. “In the lining. I sewed it in.”
Lauren retrieved the coat, feeling along the inner seam until her fingers touched hard plastic.
A navy-blue flash drive.
Her pulse accelerated as she inserted it into the secure hospital workstation.
Files populated the screen.
Video recordings.
Time-stamped.
Photos cataloged by date.
Audio clips.
Lauren clicked one.
Derek’s voice filled the room—raw, furious, unfiltered.
You’re nothing without me.
Another clip.
The sound of something breaking.
A scream cut short.
Another.
A photograph of Kiara’s shoulder, blistered and raw.
A journal entry typed in small, careful letters:
He burned me because dinner was late.
Lauren felt nausea rise but forced herself to continue.
It was meticulous.
Organized.
Documented.
This was not desperation.
This was preparation.
“He’s done,” one of the nurses whispered.
Lauren picked up the phone and called the police.
Fifteen minutes later, Derek Vaughn was in handcuffs in the hospital parking lot.
The transformation on his face as officers recited his rights was stark. Shock gave way to rage. Rage to something colder.
Loss of control.
