Welcome, dear reader, to the Greenwood household—a sanctuary of rituals, serenity, and secrets darker than your morning black coffee. Picture a quiet dinner scene: Brian, our diligent college kid, is home for the weekend, typing away on his project at the dining room table. Enter Alex, his father, our overworked economics professor, fresh from his scholarly duties. Oh, did I mention that Alex also happens to be Brian’s teacher? Yeah, life’s full of those little twists. And Amanda, the glue holding it all together, greets Alex with her ever-concerned smile and customary peck on the cheek.
“You look like you’ve been run over by an academic freight train,” Amanda says, her eyes filled with empathy.
“It’s been one heck of a day,” Alex sighs, dropping his briefcase with the same elegance one would perform an interpretive dance about exhaustion. “Grading, meetings, committee nonsense—I’m just about done.”
The dinner scene unfolds like a well-rehearsed waltz, utensils clinking, silence serenading, with the spotlight on Brian’s college escapades.
“So, how’s college treating you?” Alex asks, morphing into Professor Dad.
“Good, mostly,” Brian says, pausing just enough to add some drama. “But there’s this girl, Elizabeth White. She seems to avoid me like I’m the plague, even though we share classes together.”
At this, the room’s atmosphere tightens like a noose. Alex’s fork freezes mid-air, his face shadowed with an unspoken dread. “Elizabeth White? Stay clear of her, Brian. Trust me, she’s bad news,” he says, his tone almost imperial.
Now, this catches Brian off-guard, like a pop quiz on a Monday morning. “Why? Do you know her?” Brian pries.
“Just trust me,” Alex retorts, the conversation stonewalled.
After dinner, our beleaguered professor retreats to his study, leaving Brian with a nagging curiosity gnawing at his sanity. But, not one to rock the boat, Brian decides to drop it—at least for now.
Fast forward to the next day, and Brian’s laptop throws a tantrum, crashing spectacularly. Cue lightbulb moment: his dad’s old computer in the study! With his own device out of commission, Brian heads there like a knight seeking a relic.
Bathed in dim study light, the old computer whirrs to life. Brian dives into his project but stumbles upon a folder named—you guessed it—“PRIVATE.” And like the proverbial cat, Brian’s curiosity is on a perilous trajectory.
Click. Password prompt. Of course. But fear not, this is planet Brian, where guessing “Greenwood123” opens doors like magic. Inside, a Pandora’s box—hundreds of photos of Elizabeth White, taken in all sorts of locations. Some look like they’ve been stealthily snapped without her consent. Oh, and let’s not forget: screenshots of her social media, personal data, the whole creepy nine yards.
Brian’s heart mimics a drumline as he scrolls through these intimate invasions. The father he idolized is suddenly a character straight out of a psychological thriller. And then he sees it—a subfolder named “Letters.”
Click. Draft emails addressed to Elizabeth, written in tones both affectionate and borderline obsessive. One draft spills the beans: a relationship birthed shortly after Elizabeth enrolled in college. Phrases like “I can’t stop thinking about you” scream desperation. Reality body-checks Brian: Dad’s got an obsession, and it’s diabolical.
Brian’s hands quiver. He slams the folder shut, logs off, and bolts out of the study, brain buzzing like it’s been electrified. Back in his room, the options churn madly: confront Alex? Confide in his mom? Go to the authorities?
One thing’s for sure—Daddy Dearest isn’t the paragon of virtue he pretends to be. Professor, loving hubby, caring dad? More like a ticking time bomb, his secret escapades threatening to tear apart their idyllic façade.
As Brian lies in bed, staring into the abyss of his ceiling, one agonizing truth crystallizes: the nightmare has only begun, and it promises to deepen, dragging their family into its chilling depths.
So, dear readers, what’s the play here? Your guess is as good as Brian’s. Just remember: some secrets are best left buried. Or are they?
