The old photo studio smelled like dust, chemicals, and ghosts.
The neon sign outside had long burned out, leaving only a cracked glass frame that read Sunset Memories—ironic, considering how many secrets had been buried here. I’d passed this place a hundred times growing up, never knowing my father had turned it into a bunker for truth.
Aunt May locked the door behind us.
The click echoed too loud.
“Your dad was careful,” she said, moving with purpose now, no trace of the gentle makeup artist Hollywood knew. She slid a rusted cabinet aside, revealing a narrow door disguised as part of the wall. “But even careful men don’t live forever.”
My throat tightened. “He knew he was in danger.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “And he knew someone like Victor King would make sure the evidence disappeared with him.”
The door creaked open.
Inside was a small, windowless room. One desk. One chair. Stacks of labeled film canisters. A locked metal box sat in the center like a heart waiting to be cracked open.
Aunt May knelt, entered a code, and lifted the lid.
She pulled out a battered recording pen.
“This is what he died protecting.”
My hands shook as I took it.
I pressed play.
Victor’s voice filled the room—smooth, confident, cruel.
“You don’t sign, you don’t work. You talk, you disappear. That’s how this industry survives.”
A woman’s muffled sob followed.
“This contract keeps you relevant. Break it, and I’ll make sure no one believes you ever existed.”
My stomach turned.
This was it. Proof of the system. The rot.
But not enough.
“There’s nothing here about my father,” I whispered. “Nothing about the drugs. The fall.”
Aunt May looked away.
“He never finished collecting it,” she said. “Or maybe… he hid the rest.”
A sudden sound cut through the silence.
Footsteps.
I spun just as the front door creaked open.
“Ella.”
My heart slammed into my ribs.
Jack Taylor stood in the doorway, hands raised slightly, eyes haunted.
“I was hoping you’d come here,” he said. “But I didn’t expect you to beat me to it.”
Rage flared. “You followed me.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “And I should’ve done more three years ago.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a thick envelope. “The night your father died, our paper received this.”
I snatched it.
Inside were printed emails. Threats. Legal pressure. Anonymous warnings promising lawsuits, financial ruin, worse—if the paper published doubts about the ‘accident.’
My father’s last investigation.
“You pulled the story,” I said coldly.
Jack flinched. “They threatened everyone. Editors. Families. I chose my job over the truth.”
Silence swallowed us.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That guilt doesn’t go away.”
I opened my mouth to respond—
The front windows shattered.
“Everyone freeze.”
Victor King’s voice slithered into the room like poison.
He stepped inside, flanked by two guards. His smile was gone, replaced by something feral.
“Well,” he said, surveying us. “Looks like family reunion night.”
Aunt May moved in front of me.
Victor laughed. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice my favorite makeup artist disappearing with my least favorite problem?”
He gestured around. “You picked the wrong hiding place.”
My pulse roared.
Jack stepped forward. “This doesn’t have to end like this, Victor.”
“Oh, it does,” Victor snapped. “Loose ends are bad for business.”
One guard raised his gun.
Before he could pull the trigger, the door burst open again.
“SURPRISE.”
Sofia Ryan stormed in, phone held high.
“I’m live,” she shouted. “Say hi to the internet.”
Victor froze.
Her screen glowed—viewers ticking up by the second. Hundreds of thousands. Then millions.
“You can’t—” Victor lunged.
Jack moved faster.
“Victor King,” he said, pulling out a badge. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. You’re under arrest for extortion, coercion, assault, and obstruction of justice.”
The room erupted.
The guards hesitated. Sirens wailed in the distance.
Sofia’s hands shook, but she didn’t lower the phone. “You don’t own us anymore,” she said, voice breaking. “I was never yours.”
Victor’s face crumpled.
“You ungrateful—”
Handcuffs snapped shut.
As agents swarmed in, my knees nearly buckled. It was over.
Or so I thought.
In the chaos, my eyes found Aunt May.
She stood very still.
Too still.
I watched as her fingers closed around the recording pen—and slipped it into her coat.
Our eyes met.
There was no fear in hers.
Only resolve.
And something darker.
Whatever my father had uncovered… this wasn’t the end of it.
It was only the beginning.