Arthur dropped the phone.

His knees hit the attic floor.

“My daughter?” he whispered.

For six months, everyone told him Clara fell down the stairs by accident. His son-in-law cried at the funeral, held Arthur’s hand, and promised to take care of the house.

But the red eye behind the wall blinked again.

Not alive.

A camera.

Hidden inside the wood.

Arthur’s shaking hand reached through the crack and pulled out a tiny device, its red recording light still glowing.

The phone crackled on the floor.

“Don’t scream,” the voice said. “He’ll come up.”

Arthur picked it up with trembling fingers.

“Who are you?”

The voice broke.

“The woman your son-in-law tried to kill after your daughter sent me the files.”

Arthur’s breath stopped.

Downstairs, footsteps moved slowly across the hallway.

Then his son-in-law’s voice came through the door.

“Arthur. Open up.”

Arthur backed away, clutching the hidden camera.

The voice on the phone whispered, “Clara found cameras in every room. She was going to expose him. That’s why she died.”

Arthur’s eyes filled with tears.

On the dusty attic floor, he saw a small metal box beneath an old blanket.

His daughter’s jewelry box.

Inside was a flash drive, a torn photo, and a note written in Clara’s handwriting.

Dad, if he says I fell, don’t believe him.

Arthur covered his mouth as a sob escaped.

The doorknob began to turn.

“Open the door,” his son-in-law said, no longer pretending to be gentle.

Arthur stood slowly, tears running down his wrinkled face.

For the first time since Clara’s funeral, fear left him.

Grief became rage.

He lifted the phone and whispered, “Call the police.”

The door burst open.

His son-in-law stepped in, smiling until he saw the flash drive in Arthur’s hand.

Arthur’s voice shook, but it did not break.

“She was my little girl,” he said. “And you thought I’d let her stay silent forever.”