Chapter 3 - The Broken Glass
The recital passed in a blur of agonizing tension. Chloe played her piece flawlessly, her tiny hands moving across the keys with a robotic precision that the audience mistook for pure talent. I knew the truth—she was playing out of survival. When the applause erupted, Richard stood up, clapping grandly, soaking in the reflected glory of his granddaughter’s success.
During the reception in the banquet hall, Richard approached Meredith while I was getting Chloe a glass of water.
“Meredith, darling,” Richard said, patting his daughter’s hand. “Since Chloe did so exceptionally well today, why don't we celebrate early? Let her come over to the estate this Thursday for an extended session. I’ve imported some rare sheet music from Vienna.”
Meredith beamed. “Oh, Dad, that sounds wonderful. Harrison can drop her off after his afternoon meeting.”
I walked up behind them, placing the water glass in Chloe’s hand. “Actually, Meredith, I’ll be dropping her off myself. In fact, I think I’ll stay for the session. I’d love to see exactly how Richard teaches her.”
Richard’s posture stiffened immediately. He turned to me, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, icy glare. “That won't be necessary, Harrison. My study is a space of intense concentration. Parents are a distraction. Even well-meaning ones.”
“I won't be a distraction, Richard. I’ll be a silent observer,” I said, matching his icy stare.
Meredith laughed nervously, sensing the sudden, heavy static between her husband and her father. “Harrison, don't be silly. You know Dad’s rules. He’s been training prodigies for decades. Let them have their time.”
I didn't argue further. Doing so would only tip my hand. I backed down, letting a fake look of disappointment wash over my face. “Alright. Thursdays it is.”
The next three days were a race against time. I couldn't go to the local police department yet; Richard’s best friend was the chief of police, and his former law clerks filled the local district attorney's office. If I filed a report through standard channels, a "courtesy call" would be made to Richard within an hour, and the evidence would disappear.
Instead, I reached out to a private security firm managed by a former FBI agent named Marcus Kane, a man who specialized in high-profile corporate espionage and domestic protection.
On Wednesday night, Marcus met me in the basement of my office building. He laid out a small, black velvet case on the drafting table.
“This is a micro-cellular pinhole camera, Harrison,” Marcus explained, lifting a device no larger than a shirt button. “It doesn't run on local Wi-Fi, so Richard’s estate sweepers won't detect it. It broadcasts a direct, encrypted cellular stream to a secure server. If you can plant this inside his private study before Thursday afternoon, we’ll have a high-definition video feed of whatever happens behind those closed doors.”
“How am I supposed to plant it?” I asked. “He never leaves anyone alone in that study.”
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Marcus handed me a small, elegant crystal paperweight with a silver base. “He doesn't have to leave you alone. This is a replica of a judicial commemorative gift. The camera is embedded inside the silver filigree at the base. You walk in, you give him the gift as a congratulatory token for Chloe’s recital, and you place it right on his desk. The angle will cover the entire room, including the piano.”
I took the paperweight. It felt heavy, solid, and dangerous. It was the key to saving my daughter, or the trigger that would blow my life apart.
