My Mom Removed My Bedroom Door So Her New Boyfriend Could “Monitor” Me. She Said I Was Making Up Lies About Him. Then I Found My Father’s Secret Journal Hidden In The Attic.

The Trap Closes In

I knew Brandon might check it. He’d been going through my things more lately. When I got home that day he was waiting in my room, sitting on my bed like he owned the place.

He’d gone through everything. My drawers were dumped out, clothes scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. My mattress was flipped, the box spring exposed; even my old jewelry box was emptied, cheap necklaces and friendship bracelets tangled together.

He asked where it was, his voice dangerously quiet. I played dumb, asking what he was talking about, trying to look confused instead of terrified. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard, my teeth clicking together.

He said he knew I found something in the attic, that he wasn’t stupid. Mom came home then, her keys jingling as she called out hello. She asked what was going on, surveying the destruction of my room with raised eyebrows.

Brandon smoothly lied, his entire demeanor changing in an instant. He said he was helping me reorganize my messy room, that I’d asked for his help. He even smiled that fake smile that never reached his eyes.

She believed him like always, probably because it was easier than asking questions. That night at dinner Brandon announced they were moving up the wedding. Instead of next year, it would be next month.

He said he couldn’t wait any longer to make our family official. Mom squealed with excitement, clapping her hands like a child. I felt sick. The chicken on my plate suddenly looking gray and unappetizing.

Over the next few weeks, Brandon watched me constantly. He installed a camera in the hallway pointing at where my door used to be. The red light blinking at me like an evil eye.

He started driving me to and from school. No more bus with my friends. He’d wait in the parking lot, engine running, watching everyone who talked to me. He took my phone at night, placing it on his nightstand where I couldn’t reach it.

Uncle Henry

But I kept working during the day. I printed pages from the journal at school and hid them in my locker, taping them behind old textbooks. I needed help but didn’t know who to trust.

My teachers seemed oblivious. My friends wouldn’t understand. Then I remembered Uncle Henry. He was dad’s best friend since high school.

The kind of guy who showed up to help without being asked. They’d been inseparable until dad’s arrest. Mom had banned him from contacting us after that, saying he was a bad influence. That he enabled dad’s violent tendencies.

But I knew that was a lie. Uncle Henry was a good man who smelled like sawdust and always had butterscotch candies in his pocket. He worked construction and had three kids of his own: twin boys and a little girl who called me her big cousin.

I found his number in an old address book mom had forgotten about in the kitchen junk drawer, buried under expired coupons and dead batteries. I called him from the pay phone outside school during PE class. The metal cold against my ear.

I told the teacher I felt sick and needed air, clutching my stomach for effect. Uncle Henry answered on the third ring, his gruff voice softening when I said who I was. I talked fast, words tumbling over each other, telling him I needed help, that dad was innocent, that I had proof.

He told me to slow down to breathe. Then he said to meet him at the public library after school the next day. He’d tell my mom he saw me walking and offered a ride if she asked.

His voice was steady, reassuring, and for the first time in weeks I felt like maybe things would be okay. Brandon was suspicious when I said I was staying late for a group project. He grilled me about who was in my group, what the project was about, which teacher assigned it.

But my history teacher backed me up when he called to check, probably annoyed at being bothered during her planning period. I practically ran to the library, my backpack bouncing against my spine. Uncle Henry was waiting in the parking lot in his old pickup truck.

The red paint faded but clean. He looked older than I remembered, with more gray in his beard and deeper lines around his eyes. I showed him photos of the journal entries on my phone, swiping through them quickly.

His face got darker with each one, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. He said he always knew something was off about Dad’s arrest. The story never made sense. Too many holes, too convenient.

Building the Case

He asked if I still had the actual journal. I told him where I hid it and he nodded approvingly. He said we needed more than just dad’s suspicions. We needed real evidence, witnesses, something concrete.

He knew some people who worked at the bar that night. Maybe they saw something. Remembered something the police didn’t bother to ask about.

Over the next two weeks, I met Uncle Henry at the library three more times. Each meeting felt like a spy movie, checking over my shoulder, taking different routes. He’d track down Edward who was working security that night.

Edward was a big guy with kind eyes who remembered everything. He remembered Brandon being there which was weird because Brandon had told police he was home all evening watching TV. Edward said he saw Brandon go into the bathroom right before dad.

Maybe 30 seconds. But Edward had been too scared to speak up after dad got arrested so fast, afraid of getting involved. Afraid of Brandon who had connections everywhere.

Uncle Henry also found Caroline who was bartending that night. She had curly red hair and a sharp memory for faces. She said Brandon had been coming around for weeks before the incident, always asking about dad’s schedule, pretending to be friendly.

She thought it was strange but didn’t think much of it at the time. People asked about regulars all the time. She remembered Brandon ordering a drink that night, a whiskey neat, then disappearing for a while before the body was found.

She’d been the one to call 911, her hands shaking so bad she could barely dial. The breakthrough came when Uncle Henry talked to Brian who managed the bar. Brian was an older guy who’d run the place for 20 years.

Brian mentioned they’d upgraded their security system a month before the incident. The police had only taken the main camera footage, but there was a backup system that recorded the hallway to the bathrooms. Brian still had those files on an old hard drive in his office.

He’d forgotten about them until Henry asked. The drive gathering dust behind old liquor invoices. We met at Brian’s house to watch the footage.

His living room smelled like cigarettes and coffee. My stomach was in knots as Brian connected the drive to his laptop. The time stamp showed Brandon entering the bathroom at 9:47 p.m.

Walking casually like he had all the time in the world. Dad entered at 9:52 p.m., probably just needing to use the bathroom after his shift. Brandon came out at 9:51 p.m., checking his watch and smoothing down his shirt.

Dad came out at 9:53 p.m. covered in blood shouting for help, his face a mask of shock and horror. It was clear as day Brandon had 4 minutes alone in that bathroom. More than enough time to call someone and set up a frame job.