Chapter 5 - The Hidden USB Drive
The second scream was worse than the first—not a cry of fear this time, but of sudden, panicked discovery. Clara spun around, her blue dress swirling as she bolted out of the kitchen, Mark right on her heels. They burst back into the dining and living area, expecting to see an intruder, a shattered window, or worse.
Instead, Ethan and Lily were standing by the television console, staring down in horror at the floor.
At Ethan’s feet lay a small, black rectangular object that hadn’t been there ten minutes ago. It was a standard USB flash drive, gleaming innocently under the warm glow of the living room lamp.
“What is that?” Clara breathed, rushing forward to pull both children back into her arms, scanning the room for any sign of movement. The windows were locked, the front door was deadbolted, yet somehow, an item had materialized right in the middle of their living room while they were talking in the kitchen.
Mark strode past them, his eyes sharp as he scanned every corner of the room. He knelt down and picked up the flash drive, turning it over in his large palm. There was no label, no marking, just a small blinking LED light on its edge that pulsed with a rhythmic, silent beat.
“Dad, it was right there on the rug,” Ethan said, his voice shaking. “It just… it dropped from the ceiling vent.”
Mark looked up sharply. The HVAC vent above the console was old, its metal slats slightly rusted. It was large enough for a small-framed person to crawl through, connecting directly to the exterior utility crawlspace on the side of the house. A cold realization washed over him. Richard hadn't just walked through the front door; he had cased the entire property, finding every vulnerable entry point long before the party even began.
“Mark, what’s on that thing?” Clara asked, her voice trembling as she stared at the little piece of plastic and metal in her husband’s hand.
“I don't know yet,” Mark replied, his voice dangerously calm. “But I’m going to find out.”
He stood up, walking swiftly toward the study at the end of the hall. Clara followed him closely, leaving the children safely on the sofa with strict instructions not to move. Inside the dimly lit study, Mark sat down at his heavy oak desk and plugged the USB drive into his secure personal laptop.
The screen flickered, a black command prompt window flashing a series of unreadable code before a single video file appeared on the desktop. The file name was simple: WATCH_ME.mp4.
Mark’s finger hovered over the trackpad. His heart hammered against his ribs. He looked up at Clara, who stood behind him, her hands clasped tightly together, her face pale in the glow of the monitor.
“We shouldn’t open it,” Clara whispered, fear gripping her throat. “It could be a virus. A trap.”
“It’s already a trap, Clara,” Mark replied grimly.
He double-clicked the file.
The media player popped open. For a second, the screen was entirely black. Then, static hissed through the speakers, followed by the crisp, clear audio of a security camera feed. The video showed the exterior of their house from three days ago—the back patio, the sliding glass door, and someone standing in the shadows, watching through the kitchen window as Ethan blew out the candles on a completely different cake, practicing for the party.
Then, the camera angle shifted. It was an interior shot. Not from their house, but from somewhere else entirely. A sterile, white-walled room with a desk, a safe, and a man standing in front of an open file cabinet.
Clara gasped, clapping both hands over her mouth as she recognized the man on the screen. It was Mark, five years ago, wearing a security uniform she had never seen before, sliding a thick manila folder into his jacket pocket.
Mark froze, the color draining entirely from his face. The past he had buried so deeply, the secret he had sworn to take to his grave, was now playing out in high definition on his own computer screen.
The video paused on a close-up of Mark’s face, and a synthetic, distorted voice began to speak through the laptop speakers.
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“Happy birthday, Ethan,” the voice droned coldly. “And happy reckoning, Mark. You have twenty-four hours to hand over the company shares, or the whole world finds out what happened at the docks.”
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