The email notification chimed on my phone at 2:47 AM, jolting me from the restless sleep I'd finally managed to find. Hannah stirred beside me in what used to be Beatrice's bed, mumbling something incoherent before settling back into her dreams.
I grabbed my phone, expecting maybe a condolence message or an update from the coast guard about the search. What I saw instead made my blood turn to ice.
Subject: I saw what you did
My hands trembled as I opened the attachment. The video loaded slowly, each pixel materializing like a nightmare coming to life. There I was, clear as day, my hands on Beatrice's back. The push. Her fall. Everything.
The message was simple but devastating: "I saw what you did. You're not as clever as you think. This is just the beginning. - A Friend"
I shot up from the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was impossible. We'd been careful. We'd planned everything. Who could have recorded this?
My phone rang immediately, the unknown number from the email glowing on the screen. I answered with shaking fingers.
"Who is this?" I demanded, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. "How did you get this video? Who are you?"
Silence. Then the line went dead.
I stared at the phone, my mind racing. Someone knew. Someone had evidence. Someone was watching.
The next few days were a living hell. I tried to maintain the facade of the grieving widower, accepting condolences and playing my part, but inside I was crumbling. Every shadow seemed threatening, every unknown number made my heart stop.
Then came the second email.
"$500,000. Wire transfer to the account below. You have 24 hours, or this video goes to the police. - A Friend"
I didn't hesitate. I liquidated assets, moved money, did whatever it took. Five hundred thousand dollars disappeared from my accounts in exchange for silence. It was worth it. It had to be worth it.
But it wasn't enough.
The third email arrived a week later, and this one made me physically sick.
"Your grandfather killed Beatrice's parents. I have proof. $1,000,000 this time, or everyone learns the truth about the Jones family. - A Friend"
Attached were documents I'd never seen before—bank records, communications, evidence of Mateo's involvement in the car accident that killed Beatrice's parents. My grandfather had been more thorough in his crime than I'd ever imagined, but apparently not thorough enough.
I found Mateo in his study, nursing a whiskey and reading financial reports. When I showed him the email, his face went through a series of transformations—surprise, fury, and finally, cold calculation.
"I thought you said you took care of this," he snarled, throwing his glass against the wall. Crystal shattered, whiskey staining the expensive wallpaper. "You told me she was dead!"
"She is dead!" I shouted back, my composure finally cracking. "I pushed her myself! I watched her fall!"
"Then who the hell is this?" He jabbed a finger at the phone screen. "Who else knew about the parents? You're the only one I told!"
We stared at each other, the weight of our shared guilt and mutual accusations filling the room like poison gas.
"Maybe someone else was investigating," I said weakly. "Maybe—"
"Maybe you're an incompetent fool who's going to destroy everything I've built!" Mateo's voice was deadly quiet now, which was somehow worse than his shouting.
Hannah appeared in the doorway, drawn by our raised voices. When we explained the situation, her face went pale.
"What if she's not dead?" she whispered, voicing the fear that had been growing in the back of my mind. "What if she somehow survived?"
"Impossible," I said immediately, but even as the word left my mouth, doubt crept in. "I saw her hit the water. She's terrified of water—she can't swim. There's no way she could have survived."
"But they never found a body," Hannah pressed on, her voice getting higher with panic. "The coast guard searched for days. Nothing. What if someone saved her? What if she's alive and she's doing this to us?"
"She's dead," I repeated, but the conviction was gone from my voice. "She has to be dead."
Mateo was quiet for a long moment, his sharp mind working through the possibilities. "Dead or alive, someone knows too much. We pay this time, but we also start looking for answers. I want to know who's behind this."
I transferred another million dollars, watching my carefully accumulated wealth disappear into the digital void. But the money felt meaningless now.
What terrified me was the knowledge that someone out there was playing with us, pulling our strings like we were puppets in their sick game.
The weeks that followed were a strange mixture of paranoia and forced normalcy. I threw myself into work, trying to distract from the constant fear.
The vaccine distribution was finally beginning, and I watched with satisfaction as hospitals across the country began implementing our formula.
This was supposed to be my triumph. The culmination of everything I'd worked for—everything I'd killed for. Major medical centers were reporting successful trials, and the media was hailing it as a breakthrough in preventive medicine.
"Look at this," Hannah said one morning, showing me her tablet. "Johns Hopkins is calling it revolutionary. The CDC wants to fast-track approval for nationwide distribution."
For a moment, I allowed myself to feel pride. Despite everything—the blackmail, the paranoia, the constant fear—I was succeeding. The vaccine was working. I was going to be rich beyond my wildest dreams.
But that afternoon, my phone rang with a call that shattered my fragile sense of victory.
"Mr. Jones?" The voice was professional but strained. "This is Dr. Martinez from St. Mary's Hospital in Phoenix. We need to discuss the vaccine batch you sent us."
My stomach dropped. "What about it?"
"We've had three deaths in the past 24 hours, those who received the vaccine. We need to talk immediately."
