Signed In Deception

Chapter 9: Echoes in the Dark

The thumb drive burned in my palm like a hot coal. I couldn’t bring myself to plug it in, not yet. I didn’t want to see just how far Phil’s poison had spread. But I knew I had to.

George and Ana insisted I wait. “Let me create a secure system,” George said. “He’s probably monitoring everything.”

“Then we hit back fast,” Ana added. “Before he buries it all.”

We arranged to meet at George’s office the next day. But that night, my apartment was broken into.

Nothing was stolen.

Just… searched.

Drawers pulled open, cushions slashed, paintings ripped from the walls.

The only thing missing was a picture frame. One I kept beside my bed. It had a photo of my dad, and the back of it had a note he once scribbled to me. That was gone.

Why take that?

It didn’t make sense until later—when I remembered what I had hidden inside the frame’s base: a spare USB. A copy of the red file.

I had forgotten it even existed.

And now, someone else had it.

Phil was moving faster.

The next morning, we didn’t meet at George’s office. He texted just before dawn: “Change of plans. Meet at Safe Room. Not secure anymore.”

Safe Room was a nickname for an old legal bunker George kept under a co-working studio in North Hollywood. He used it for sensitive clients, mostly whistleblowers and scared celebrities.

I arrived with Ana.

George looked exhausted. “They tried to follow me last night.”

He slid the drive into a machine secured to an offline laptop. It opened instantly—folders labeled with names, bank accounts, and signatures.

My heart pounded. It wasn’t just about me anymore.

There were contracts for girls barely eighteen. Voice memos of threats. Photos. Even a recorded phone call between Phil and a label executive.

“I made her. I can break her.” Phil’s voice. Cold. Calculated.

George backed up the contents immediately. “This is enough to bury him,” he whispered.

But just as he did, the screen flickered. Not a glitch—something else.

Lines of code appeared. Then a message:

‘Traitor. You just signed your end.’

Then the laptop crashed.

“Jesus,” George gasped. “It’s booby-trapped. He planted malware in the drive. It sent a signal when we opened it.”

“You said we were offline,” I said.

“We were. This… this means someone nearby is watching. Someone close.”

We ran.

That night, Ana and I went to a motel off Sunset, names changed, phones off. But fear followed us. I couldn’t sleep.

Sometime around 2 a.m., Ana shook me awake. “Check this.”

Her phone, which we’d kept off, was somehow active. On the screen: a live stream.

Of us.

In the motel bed.

I choked back a scream. The camera was in the TV.

We fled again.

Later, when we finally met George again, he had news.

“I reached out to a contact. A former client of Phil’s. She disappeared five years ago, but I think she wants to help.”

“Why now?”

“Because you’re loud. And she’s tired of hiding.”

We set up a meeting. Neutral ground. A chapel in downtown LA, abandoned since the early 2000s. I hated the drama of it—but George said she insisted.

We arrived just before dusk.

Inside, the light filtered through stained glass. Dust hung like ghosts in the air.

Then I saw her.

A woman in her early thirties. Sharp eyes. Scars on her wrists.

“My name’s Claire,” she said. “He ruined me.”

She spoke in riddles. Of broken promises, shelved records, nights that blurred into nightmares.

“He doesn’t just own your voice,” she said. “He owns your silence. That’s what he trades in.”

Then she gave us a journal. Handwritten. Full of names, dates, and one entry that chilled me:

“Met her today. Kim. So much like her mother. I’ll keep her close.”

It was Phil’s handwriting.

“I found that before I ran,” Claire said.

“He planned this,” I whispered. “All of it.”

Claire nodded. “He never let go of your mother. You were his second chance.”

I couldn’t breathe.

That night, I returned to my father’s grave. I needed to speak. To scream.

But when I arrived, someone else was already there.

Phil.

He was standing at the headstone, smoking.

“I knew you’d come,” he said without turning.

I froze. My fists clenched.

“You should’ve let sleeping ghosts lie, Kim.”

“You’re a monster.”

He turned slowly, face blank. “No. I’m a survivor. Like your father. He made mistakes too. Ask him why he gave you up so easily.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Check the safe,” he said, stepping closer. “Behind the painting. His study. You’ll see.”

I didn’t move. I wanted to hit him. Scream. But something in his voice... it wasn’t a threat. It was finality.

He walked away into the night, leaving me trembling.

Back home, I searched the study. The painting over the fireplace was heavy, but I managed to pull it down.

Behind it: a wall safe.

The code? My birthday.

Inside: a letter. Dated a week before my father died.

“Kim, if you’re reading this, it means the truth has found you. I made a deal with Phil once to protect you. He promised to help your music rise. I didn’t know what he really wanted…”

I dropped the letter.

My dad had traded me. My career… was built on a bargain.

The phone rang.

George.

“They’ve taken Ana.”

My blood ran cold.

“They left a message. They want the journal. Tonight. No police”.

I stood in the ruins of my father’s lies, holding the last clue to bring Phil down.

But now… my sister’s life hung in the balance.