Julian reopened the laptop and dragged the video backward.
He froze the frame before the man removed his cap.
Now that Ava had said it, the difference became visible.
The jaw was wrong.
The nose broader.
The facial movements a little too smooth.
“Deepfake,” Julian whispered.
Brooke shook her head.
“But why?”
“To make us believe her father is alive,” I said.
Ava looked at me.
“Or to make us dismiss the real possibility as fake.”
The countdown continued.
07:38.
A sound came from downstairs.
The back door opened.
Julian moved first, pulling a small folding knife from his pocket as he headed into the hallway. I followed with the laptop in my hands. Ava and Brooke came behind us.
We reached the staircase.
The living room below appeared empty.
The front door was still locked.
The back door stood open several inches.
Cold air moved through the house.
Julian descended slowly.
I followed him into the kitchen.
Mud marked the tile near the entrance.
One set of footprints led inside.
None led out.
A white envelope rested on the counter.
My name was written across it in the same imitation of my handwriting.
Julian opened the pantry.
Empty.
I checked the laundry room.
Nothing.
Ava and Brooke came down together.
The laptop countdown reached 06:02.
Ava saw the envelope.
“Don’t touch it.”
“It’s already here,” I said.
Brooke looked toward the dark backyard.
“Someone came in while we were upstairs.”
Julian studied the footprints.
“They’re too clean.”
“What does that mean?”
He touched one.
The mud smeared like paint.
“Printed,” he said. “Placed.”
I locked the back door.
The envelope remained on the counter.
05:31.
I tore it open.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed Ava and Julian entering a hotel room together six months earlier. The image was intimate only because it wanted to be. Her hand rested on his back. His head was turned toward hers.
Behind the photograph was another list.
Friday, 7:30 p.m.—Ava departs.
Friday, 9:10 p.m.—Brooke arrives.
Saturday, 1:00 a.m.—Julian arrives.
Saturday, 1:10 a.m.—Laptop activates.
The final line read:
Saturday, 1:20 a.m.—Decision.
I checked the kitchen clock.
1:17.
The laptop showed 02:42.
The countdown would end at 1:20.
Julian reached for the envelope.
“There has to be more.”
A small black card slipped onto the counter.
One sentence was printed across it.
Choose who leaves with the laptop.
Brooke whispered, “This is a game.”
“No,” Ava said. “It’s a test.”
Julian looked at her.
“You recognize it?”
She nodded slowly.
“Our father used to do this.”
Brooke’s face twisted.
“Dad did not hide laptops and threaten people.”
“Not like this. He used choices.”
“What choices?”
“When I was a child, he would put two envelopes on the table. One had a reward. One had a punishment. He said character was revealed by what people chose when they didn’t know the outcome.”
Brooke stared.
“He never did that to me.”
Ava gave her a broken smile.
“You were his favorite.”