Chapter 4: The Truth Burns

I worried Carol’s death would put too much pressure on my daughter, so I took her on a trip to escape the gossip.

We packed the car, filled up at Shell, and drove to Florida. My daughter pressed her face to the window, humming along to Taylor Swift, carefree. I tried to relax, but my mind kept circling the news from home.

Along the way, my daughter was happy. Until one day at Disney World, she wanted a princess headband that cost several hundred dollars. I was so shocked I dragged her away after a lot of convincing.

She pouted all the way to the parking lot, arms crossed, refusing to speak. Later, she glared at me over her chicken nuggets, as if I’d committed the ultimate betrayal.

That night, I found my daughter chatting with friends on her Apple Watch. Normally, I respect her privacy, but that night, out of boredom, I checked her chat history using parental controls.

Her watch buzzed with new messages. As she showered, I scrolled through, not expecting much beyond emojis and talk of theme parks.

What I saw left me stunned.

It was like opening a door to a different world—one where I was the villain, a cheapskate dad, the butt of every joke.

Pages and pages of chat logs were just my daughter complaining about me! Complaining I was cheap, wouldn’t spend money on her, even used coupons when we ate out, that I wasn’t a celebrity or rich, and that she regretted being born into our family.

The words stung more than I wanted to admit. I sat on the edge of the hotel bed, scrolling as Disney fireworks popped outside the window.

Then a girl suggested: “Why not send your dad to jail too?”

My breath caught. I kept reading, heart pounding, unsure what I’d find next.

My daughter replied: “Nah, I still gotta take the SATs. What if he screws that up for me?”

That line twisted in my chest. SATs. College. It was like they were planning real life like a board game, not realizing the consequences.

My heart pounded. I dragged my daughter out of bed. “Did Mark Jennings ever touch you? Did you lie?”

She blinked, confused at first, then realized I’d seen her messages. I was shaking, voice tight. The truth was all I wanted.

At first, she tried to dodge the question, but my wife wasn’t there to back her up.

I watched her lower her gaze, mumbling about being tired. But I kept pressing, refusing to let her slip away.

Under my repeated questioning, she finally confessed—Mark never touched her. He never molested anyone.

Her voice was barely a whisper, but the words hit like a hammer. My knees buckled, and I had to steady myself against the wall.

Her reason for accusing Mark was both absurd and chilling: the bus passed our neighborhood, but Mark refused to let her off there, insisting on the designated stop. She was mad about it.

A petty grudge, a childish vendetta. I felt sick. I thought of all the times I’d told her to follow the rules—never imagining the cost of her anger.

The other four girls were her close friends. They didn’t like Mark either, thought he was fat and ugly, so they all went along with it.

Their cruelty was casual—just an inside joke gone horribly wrong. My daughter wiped her nose on her sleeve, eyes red, but I felt strangely distant, like I barely knew her.

She clung to my pants, crying. “I just wanted to teach him a lesson. Dad, I was wrong. Please don’t be mad, okay?”

I looked down at her, unable to speak. Her hands clutched my jeans, searching for forgiveness I didn’t know if I could give.

She had no idea what she’d done. As long as I wasn’t mad, she thought it was okay.

I sat on the floor, head in my hands. She kept apologizing, her voice growing smaller, hoping she could erase what she’d done with enough tears.

The next day, I took her home and told my wife everything.

Our bags were still half-unpacked when I sat her down and explained. She stared at me, face blank, then slowly shook her head.

Shocked, my wife advised me to bury the matter and never tell anyone.

Her voice was low, almost cold. "We’ll only make things worse for ourselves."

“Mark’s mother is already dead. Even if you get him out now, he won’t thank you—he might even come after us.”

Her logic was harsh, but I understood the fear. The world felt suddenly dangerous and unpredictable.

She also said the best outcome would be for Mark to die in prison. As long as we keep quiet, the other four girls will too.

The words made me feel sick. I stared at her, searching for any sign of doubt, but she wouldn’t meet my gaze.

But what if Mark doesn’t die?

The thought wouldn’t let me rest. What if he made it out? What if he came looking for justice—or revenge?

Five years in prison is neither short nor long. If Mark is released, what then?

The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable. My wife just shrugged and went to fold laundry, as if hoping the whole thing would wash away with the next load.

Will he let us go?

I lay awake that night, the ceiling fan spinning overhead, and wondered what kind of future awaited us. My daughter slept between us, clutching her stuffed bunny, blissfully unaware.