Page 18 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
Ican't sleep.
I've been lying in this bed for hours, staring at the ceiling and processing everything that happened downstairs. The way Victor looked at me during dinner, the electricity when our hands touched, the growing certainty that something about this entire situation is wrong.
The digital clock shows 2:47 AM in red numbers. Outside, snow continues to fall in the amber glow of exterior lights, each flake another barrier between me and the world I left behind. The silence is broken only by the occasional creak of the cabin.
I should be thinking about Aaron. Should be planning what I'll say when he arrives, how I'll convince him that what we had was worth fighting for. Instead, I think about his father's gray eyes and the way he said my name.
The silk nightgown I found hanging in the closet, my size, my preferred style, clings to my skin. When had Victor learned my preferences so well?
Enough lying here. I need answers.
I slip out of bed and switch on the lamp. First things first—communication. I dig through my purse for my phone. Still no service, but I need to be methodical. I move around the room, holding the phone at different heights, checking for even a single bar of reception. Nothing.
Near the window, I notice something. When I hold the phone against the glass, a single bar flickers briefly before disappearing. I press the phone directly against the window and watch. There it is again—a momentary signal that vanishes as quickly as it appears.
That's not how cell reception works. Signals don't appear and disappear with such consistency unless they're being blocked.
I try the window latch. It doesn't budge. I try again with more force, but the mechanism seems frozen. Or locked. The frame feels unusually solid, and when I examine it closer, I notice the glass is thicker than normal windows. Double-paned, maybe reinforced.
My science training kicks in. I need to test this hypothesis systematically. I move to the other window and try its latch. Same result. I check both for external locks or security mechanisms. Nothing visible, but that doesn't mean they aren't there.
I retrieve a bobby pin from my toiletry bag and slide it into the latch mechanism, probing gently. There's no give, no spring, nothing that suggests a simple lock. This is something more sophisticated.
I cross to the bedroom door and try the handle. It opens easily into the hallway. At least I'm not locked in. But when I step into the corridor, the house is silent and dark except for subtle guide lights along the baseboards. Victor's bedroom door at the end of the hall is closed.
Rather than wandering aimlessly, I decide to search for a landline. The main floor is my best bet—I remember seeingVictor's study during the tour. If there's a phone in the house, it would be there.
I descend the stairs carefully, avoiding the spots I remember creaking. The great room is bathed in the soft glow of embers from the fireplace, casting shadows across the furniture. I move across the hardwood floors to Victor's study.
The door is unlocked. Inside, moonlight filtering through the windows illuminates a space that speaks of power—a massive desk, walls of books, and high-end computer equipment. I locate a phone on the desk and lift the receiver.
Dead silence. Not even a dial tone.
I check the connection, following the cord to the wall. It's plugged in properly. This isn't a malfunction—the line has been disconnected.
A chill races down my spine as I scan the room. On the desk sits a laptop, closed but potentially useful. I open it, and to my surprise, it isn't password protected. The screen illuminates, showing a desktop with organized folders.
One folder labeled "Security" catches my eye. I click it open to find a system of controls for the entire property. Window locks, surveillance cameras, perimeter alarms—all controllable from this interface. According to the status, everything is currently armed.
I click on "Communications" and discover what I suspected—there's an active signal jammer operating throughout the property, with particular focus on the guest wing. Cell signals are being deliberately blocked.
The surveillance tab shows multiple camera feeds. I gasp as I see my own bedroom on one of the screens, the rumpled bed evidence of my recent departure. The bathroom, the closet, even the hallway outside my room—all under surveillance.
My skin crawls with the violation, but I force myself to think analytically. This level of security isn't standard for a vacationhome. This is the system of someone pathologically concerned with control.
I check the "History" tab and discover the system was upgraded six months ago. The cameras in the guest wing were added three weeks ago, coinciding with when Aaron broke up with me.
My hands tremble as I close the laptop, careful to leave it exactly as I found it. I need to find the security control panel—the physical hardware controlling these systems. According to the floor plan I glimpsed, it should be in a utility room off the kitchen.
I make my way there, moving through the dark house. The utility room is locked, but the door has a simple interior mechanism. Using my bobby pin, I manage to trip the lock after several minutes.
Inside, I find what I'm looking for—the central control panel for the security system. It's state-of-the-art, requiring both a code and a fingerprint to disarm. No way to bypass that without Victor's cooperation.
But I do notice something useful—a small box attached to the system labeled "Signal Blocker." That's what's preventing my phone from connecting. If I could disable just that component without triggering the entire alarm system...
I examine it closely. There's no obvious way to deactivate it without alerting the main system. I'd need tools and technical knowledge I don't have.
A sound from outside the room freezes me. Footsteps. Victor must be awake.
