The same house Victor had kept locked and controlled since the trial.

The same house I hadn’t stepped into since I moved out at eighteen—because every corner of it felt like a crime scene I couldn’t understand.

Now it held something else.

Answers.

Back at the prison, statements were taken.

Ethan spoke between sobs, but his words were clear.

That night, he had woken up when he heard our father scream.

He had gone downstairs.

He saw our father on the floor.

And Victor standing over him.

There was blood.

Then Victor saw him.

Told him to go back to bed.

Ethan followed anyway.

And he watched as Victor carried the knife upstairs… and hid it under Mom’s bed.

I felt sick.

Because part of me remembered something too.

A strange detail I had dismissed at the time.

The blood on Mom’s robe—it wasn’t splattered. It looked… smeared.

Like it had been placed there.

Not earned.

Hours later, the officers returned.

They found the hidden drawer.

Inside it—documents. A USB drive. And photographs.

One photo changed everything.

It showed Victor standing beside a man I didn’t recognize.

Behind them, barely visible—my father.

On the back, in my father’s handwriting:

part2