MONICA
The doorbell rang once. Twice. Three times, insistent, sharp, cutting through the quiet afternoon.
Monica glanced at her son from the couch. Mark sat sprawled, eyes glued to his phone, thumbs scrolling, pretending he couldn't hear a thing.
"Don't you hear the doorbell?" she snapped, irritation flaring.
Mark sighed dramatically, unfolding his long legs Blackmail, Blood, and Betrayal standing. "You could've answered it yourself," he muttered under his breath.
Monica fixed his back with a glare, but before she could retort, a fit of coughing seized her—deep, rattling coughs that shook her frail frame. She pressed a tissue to her lips, turning away.
Mark yanked the door open with more force than necessary.
"What…." he started, voice rough with annoyance.
The word died in his throat.
Two men stood on the porch, mid-forties, plain dark jackets, jeans but the gold FBI badges clipped to their belts caught the sunlight like warning flares.
The taller one, salt-and-pepper hair, spoke first. Calm. Professional.
"Mark Caldwell?"
Mark managed a stiff nod.
"I'm Special Agent Hale. This is Special Agent Ramirez. FBI, New York field office. We need to speak with Monica Caldwell."
Mark's throat worked. "She's… not feeling well."
Hale's expression didn't change. "We're aware of her recent health issues. This isn't optional, Mr. Caldwell. We have questions regarding an active federal investigation."
Ramirez, shorter, sharp-eyed, added evenly, "We can do this here, or downtown. Your mother's choice."
Mark glanced over his shoulder. Monica had appeared in the hallway behind him, wrapped in a silk robe, face pale but composed—until she saw the badges. Her hand tightened on the banister.
"What is this about?" she asked, voice steady but thin.
Hale met her gaze directly. "Ma'am, we're investigating serious allegations of child endangerment, conspiracy to conceal felony sexual assault of minors, and possible accessory charges related to Dr. Aiden Reeve. Your name has come up in connection."
Monica's knuckles went white on the banister, but she didn't flinch. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Ramirez pulled a folded document from her jacket. "We have a federal subpoena for your presence at the field office for a formal interview. You're not under arrest—at this time—but we strongly advise voluntary cooperation. Refusal will result in a warrant."
Mark found his voice. "She needs a lawyer."
Hale nodded. "She's entitled to counsel. She can call one on the way or have one meet her there. But she's coming with us today."
Monica's chin lifted, the old imperious mask sliding into place. "Am I being detained?"
"Not yet," Ramirez said. "But we have sufficient probable cause to compel your appearance. You can walk out with us now, or we return with uniforms and cuffs. Your choice, Mrs. Caldwell."
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Monica glanced at Mark—eyes sharp, a silent warning: *Don't say anything.*
Then she straightened her robe, smoothing invisible wrinkles.
"I'll get my coat," she said coolly. "And I'll be calling my attorney."
Hale stepped aside. "We'll wait."
As Monica disappeared upstairs, Ramirez turned to Mark.
"You're welcome to follow in your own vehicle, Mr. Caldwell. But don't leave the state. We'll have questions for you soon."
Mark stood frozen, fists clenched, watching federal agents escort his mother from their home.
The door closed behind them with a soft, final click.
Monica didn't look back.
But in the car, as the agents pulled away from the curb, her hands—hidden in her lap—began to shake.
The crack the anonymous sender had opened was no longer a crack.
It was a chasm.
And she was falling.
****
"So what you're saying," Detective Hale continued, voice calm and measured, "is that you didn't sign any of these forms, gave no permission, and knew nothing about the assaults on your stepdaughter?"
Monica met his gaze directly. "Yes," she answered, her voice steadier than she felt.
Hale leaned back slightly, the chair creaking under him. The interview room was stark—gray walls, one-way mirror, digital recorder blinking red on the table. Monica sat across from him, her lawyer Elias Grant beside her, notepad open but pen still.
"But that's not what the evidence shows," Hale said evenly, flipping open a manila folder. He slid a photocopy across the table: a consent form dated 2011, Monica's looping signature clear at the bottom.
"And these," he added, pushing forward copies of canceled checks—quarterly payments to Dr. Aiden Reeve, escalating from five thousand to ten thousand dollars. Totaling over two hundred thousand. Memo lines reading "private consultation fees."
"Care to explain what those were for?"
Monica's eyes flicked to the papers, then back up. "Those were for medical treatments. Genesis had… issues. Behavioral problems. The doctor recommended specialized care."
Hale hummed noncommittally. "Specialized care that involved midazolam, a heavy sedative? According to Reeves' own handwritten logs, which we received in an anonymous package yesterday, you specifically requested a 'memory fog' protocol. Extra compensation for keeping things quiet."
He tapped the log entry: "Guardian requests 'memory fog' ensures compliance and discretion."
Monica's lawyer, Grant, leaned forward then, his voice smooth but firm. "Agent Hale, you're speculating. My client has already stated she was unaware of any wrongdoing. Unless you have direct evidence linking her to criminal knowledge or intent, this is fishing."
Hale met Grant's gaze steadily. "We're not fishing, Mr. Grant. We have the tapes."
Monica's breath hitched, just barely audible.
Hale slid another printout forward, a still frame from one of the VHS tapes, blurred for decency but unmistakable: a young girl, drugged and vulnerable, in an exam room.
"Five more tapes arrived yesterday," Hale said. "All featuring Genesis Caldwell as the victim. Recorded during those same 'consultations.' We've authenticated them, dates match the records, handwriting on the labels matches Reeves' known samples. Your stepdaughter was assaulted repeatedly, under sedation, and you signed off on every visit."
Monica's face paled, but she shook her head. "I… I didn't know. If that's true, it's horrifying, but why isn't Genesis here? You can ask her yourself. I'm sure she'd tell you I had no idea. And those tapes, you can't just accuse and arrest someone based on anonymous deliveries. How do you even know they're real?"
Hale's expression didn't change. "You're not under arrest, Mrs. Caldwell. Yet. This is a voluntary interview under subpoena, we can end it anytime you want. But those tapes are real, I assure you. Forensics confirmed the footage hasn't been altered. And as for why victims like Genesis didn't remember or speak up sooner… midazolam does that. Heavy doses cause amnesia, dissociation. We've heard the same from other survivors coming forward: they buried it so deep it felt like a bad dream until the story broke and the memories resurfaced."
Monica's stomach twisted violently, bile rising in her throat. She glanced at Grant, eyes pleading.
"As for your stepdaughter," Hale continued, leaning back, "Her home is being visited by some of my detectives as we speak. As a victim and potential witness."
Monica's world tilted. Her stomach dropped like a stone into ice water. Genesis, here. Talking. Remembering.
Grant cleared his throat sharply, setting down his pen with a click. "That's enough, Agent Hale. My client is invoking her right to remain silent. No further questions without full disclosure of evidence and charges. If you intend to hold her, file it now. Otherwise, we're walking."
Hale exchanged a glance with Ramirez, who gave a subtle nod. The evidence was strong, subpoenaed records, financial trails, the logs but not airtight for an immediate arrest without a confession or more corroboration from Genesis.
"You're free to go for now, Mrs. Caldwell," Hale said evenly. "But don't leave the state. We'll be in touch. Soon."
Grant stood, helping Monica to her feet. She rose shakily, legs unsteady, but her chin lifted in defiance.
As they turned for the door, Ramirez spoke up, voice cool. "One more thing. Bail isn't on the table yet—because you're not charged. But if we move forward… child endangerment and conspiracy in a federal sex crimes case? Judges don't look kindly on that. No house arrest, no ankle monitor. You'd be looking at pretrial detention. Remand. Full custody until trial."
Monica didn't respond. She couldn't.
Grant ushered her out, the door clicking shut behind them.
In the hallway, Monica's knees nearly buckled. Grant steadied her.
"Call Jimmy and Mark," she whispered, voice hoarse. "Tell them to run."
Grant's face hardened. "Mrs. Caldwell, that's obstruction. I can't…"
She gripped his arm, nails digging in. "Then find a way. Or you're fired."
He pulled away gently. "Let's get you home first. Then we talk strategy."
But Monica knew.
She knew there was no way she could avoid what was coming.