Chapter 2 - The Digital TrailThe weight of the cold glass in my palm felt heavier than any equipment I’d handled in fifteen years of professional working-dog training. Miles let out a soft sigh against my collarbone, his warm baby breath steadying my racing pulse, while Tessa stood quietly beside the bed, watching my face for a reaction.
"Dad?" she whispered, her fingers tugging at the edge of her shirt. "Are you going to yell at Mom?"
"No, Tess," I said, keeping my voice deliberately soft despite the roar of adrenaline in my ears. "I'm not going to yell. You did great today. I want you to head into the living room, put on your favorite show, and rest your arms. I've got Miles, and I've got this."
She hesitated for a second before nodding, visibly relieved to hand off a burden she never should have carried in the first place. Once her small footsteps faded down the hallway and the familiar hum of the TV filled the house, I turned my attention back to the screen in my hand.
The phone wasn't locked with a passcode—a carelessness that told me Evelyn felt completely comfortable in her cover stories. I tapped the message thread from "R."
The text history stretched back nearly seven months.
I scrolled through pages of coordinated afternoon meetups, hotel reservations in downtown Oklahoma City, and references to business transactions I knew nothing about. But as I read further, my blood turned to ice. This wasn't just a clandestine affair.
The man named "R" was Ryan Vance—a land developer who had spent the last year aggressively trying to buy out my suburban Edmond training facility to clear room for a luxury housing subdivision. I had turned down his cash offers three separate times because that land belonged to my family before Edmond expanded, and my working-dog academy was my life's work.
“If Grant won't sign the land lease, we move to plan B,” one text from Ryan read, dated three weeks ago. “He’s distracted with the dogs. Keep pushing the financial pressure at home.”
Evelyn’s response below it made my hands shake: “He thinks we’re short on the mortgage this month. I handled the ledger. He won't check the primary business account until the quarter ends.”
My breath hitched. For the past six months, Evelyn had managed our household books while I handled training operations and client relations. She had been telling me money was tight, forcing me to take on double client loads and spend twelve-hour days out on the training grounds—precisely keeping me out of the house while she manipulated our finances and met with the man trying to ruin my business.
Suddenly, heavy tires crunched over the gravel driveway outside.
May you like
I looked out the bedroom window. Evelyn’s silver crossover pulled up near the porch. The driver's door swung open, and she stepped out carrying a designer shopping bag, entirely composed, checking her reflection in the side mirror before heading toward the front door.
I slipped the second phone into my back pocket, shifted Miles into my left arm, and walked out to the kitchen to meet her.
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