CHAPTER 1 THE SCREAM AT 3:17
The scream came from the living room at exactly 3:17 in the afternoon.
Michael Brooks heard it from the terrace.
The sound cut through the peaceful silence of the Beverly Hills mansion like a knife.
For a moment, he stood frozen beside the outdoor fireplace, holding a porcelain coffee cup in his hand, trying to understand what he had just heard.
Then came another scream.
“Help me!”
It was Eleanor.
Michael dropped the cup.
The porcelain shattered against the stone floor, but he barely noticed.
He was already running.
The Brooks estate had always been described by magazines as a symbol of success. A twenty-million-dollar mansion hidden behind iron gates and rows of perfectly trimmed Italian cypress trees. Marble floors. Expensive artwork. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
A place where powerful people came to celebrate victories.
A place where secrets were buried.
Michael crossed the terrace, rushed through the glass doors, and entered the main hallway.
Behind him, three relatives followed.
Andrew Brooks, his cousin.
Victoria Brooks, his aunt.
And Robert Ellis, the family attorney.
The moment they entered the living room, everyone stopped.
Eleanor Brooks stood beside the cream-colored sofa.
Her elegant dress was torn at the shoulder.
Several red marks ran across her neck.
Her long dark brown hair was messy.
Tears streamed down her face.
And across the room stood George Brooks.
Michael’s seventy-eight-year-old father.
The legendary founder of Brooks Financial.
The man whose name appeared on skyscrapers across America.
But at that moment, he looked nothing like the powerful businessman everyone feared.
He looked old.
Small.
Confused.
His silver hair was disheveled, and his hands trembled slightly at his sides.
Eleanor pointed at him.
“He attacked me.”
The room became silent.
Michael looked at Eleanor.
Then at his father.
“What?”
Eleanor covered her mouth as if she was trying to hold back another cry.
“He grabbed me.”
Her voice shook.
“I came here to talk to him, and suddenly he became angry.”
George’s eyes widened.
“No.”
It was barely a whisper.
Michael stared at him.
“No?”
George shook his head.
“Michael, listen to me.”
But Eleanor stepped backward.
The movement was small.
Almost invisible.
But everyone noticed.
She looked afraid.
“He told me nobody would believe me,” she whispered.
Michael felt something inside him break.
For years, he had watched his father control everyone around him.
George Brooks was brilliant.
Powerful.
Cold.
He could destroy a business with one phone call.
He could end friendships with one sentence.
Growing up, Michael had always felt like he was standing in his father’s shadow.
George decided everything.
Where Michael went to school.
What career he should follow.
Who he should marry.
Even after Michael became a successful businessman himself, his father still treated him like a child.
And now Eleanor was standing there, terrified.
His father was standing there, silent.
Michael made his decision.
Without asking questions.
Without waiting.
He walked across the room.
“Michael…”
George’s voice carried warning.
But Michael was already too angry.
The sound of his hand hitting his father’s face echoed through the mansion.
A sharp crack.
Everyone froze.
George stumbled backward.
His shoulder hit the edge of a chair.
For one terrifying second, the old man almost fell.
Victoria gasped.
Andrew looked away.
Even Eleanor stopped crying.
Only for a brief moment.
Michael pointed at his father.
“You stay away from her.”
George slowly touched his cheek.
A red mark appeared across his face.
But he did not fight back.
He did not yell.
He simply looked at his son.
And that hurt Michael more than anger would have.
“You didn’t ask me what happened.”
Michael’s jaw tightened.
“I saw enough.”
George looked around the room.
Then back at his son.
“No.”
His voice was quiet.
“You saw what someone wanted you to see.”
Eleanor immediately reacted.
“Don’t listen to him.”
George ignored her.
His eyes moved upward.
Toward the corner of the ceiling.
Everyone followed his gaze.
A small black security camera was mounted above the bookshelf.
A tiny red light blinked.
Recording.
Watching.
Remembering.
George slowly raised his trembling hand.
“Play the footage.”
Nobody spoke.
Michael stared at the camera.
The Brooks mansion had more than twenty security cameras.
His father installed them five years earlier after a burglary.
Michael hated them.
He once told George the house felt less like a home and more like a prison.
George had simply answered:
“Cameras don’t create secrets, Michael.”
“They reveal them.”
Andrew walked toward the security control panel.
His fingers moved quickly across the screen.
The system loaded.
One by one, camera feeds appeared.
Front gate.
Garage.
Kitchen.
Library.
Terrace.
Living room.
Andrew selected the living room camera.
A timeline appeared.
3:04 PM.
3:05 PM.
3:06 PM.
Then suddenly—
Black screen.
Andrew frowned.
“What?”
Michael stepped closer.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
Andrew dragged the timeline backward.
At 3:04, George entered the living room holding a folder.
At 3:05, Eleanor walked in behind him.
At 3:06—
The footage stopped.
Nine minutes disappeared.
Then the recording returned at 3:18.
Exactly one minute after everyone entered the room.
Eleanor slowly released a breath.
George noticed.
Michael noticed too.
But before anyone could speak, Andrew pointed at the screen.
“Wait.”
A message appeared.
A system notification.
Everyone leaned closer.
The words appeared in red letters.
REMOTE DELETION COMPLETED
Nobody moved.
Michael stared at the screen.
“Who deleted it?”
Andrew clicked the message.
The system displayed the command location.
The entire room went silent.
Because the answer was impossible.
The deletion came from:
MICHAEL BROOKS — PRIVATE STUDY
Slowly...
everyone turned.
And looked at Michael.
His face changed.
“That’s impossible.”
Eleanor stared at him.
For the first time that afternoon...
she looked genuinely afraid.
George looked at his son.
Not with anger.
Not with disappointment.
With sadness.
“Now you understand.”
Michael swallowed.
“I didn’t delete anything.”
George looked at the camera.
Then at Eleanor.
Then back at Michael.
“Someone wanted you to look guilty.”
The mansion suddenly felt colder.
The walls that had protected the Brooks family for decades now felt like they were closing in.
And somewhere inside the house...
someone was still watching.
END OF CHAPTER 1
