The Dog That Wouldn’t Let Go
The funeral home was silent, the kind of silence that presses down on your chest. Only one sound broke through: frantic scratching. My brother Finn’s dog, Scrappy, was clawing wildly at the edge of the polished casket.
At first, people thought it was grief.
But I knew better. It was a warning. The men from Finn’s motorcycle club stood behind me, leather jackets stiff, faces unreadable.
They were supposed to be his family.
Yet, as Scrappy’s paws thudded against the wood, I caught something flicker across their eyes. Not sorrow. Not sympathy.
Fear. Two nights before, Finn had whispered to me on the phone. He’d found something.
Something dangerous.
“They think I don’t know,” he had said. “But Scrappy knows. He always knows.”
Now, in this suffocating room, his words came back like a blade to my chest.
The Secret in the Casket
The funeral director moved to drag Scrappy away, but the dog let out a sharp, protective bark and kept digging at the same spot.
Then came a metallic click. My heart jumped.
A small latch popped open—hidden in the casket’s design. Gasps filled the room.
Scrappy had uncovered a hollow compartment. And inside, nestled in velvet, was a black USB drive.
I barely had time to close my hand around it before Leo—the club’s president—lunged forward.
His grip clamped my wrist, his voice a growl: “Give it to me.”
But Scrappy was faster. With a snarl, he launched himself into the chaos, knocking another biker off balance.
In that split second, I tore free, shoved the drive into my pocket, and ran.
Running From the Truth
The cemetery blurred around me as Scrappy bolted at my heels.
Behind us, shouts erupted, boots thundered on the grass. My car keys trembled in my hands, but somehow the engine roared to life. In the rearview mirror, I saw Leo’s face twisted with fury.
That was when I understood—Finn’s “accident” wasn’t an accident.
And now, with this drive, I was in danger too. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t go to the police, not yet.
Finn had warned me: Leo had connections.
I needed proof first. Proof of what was on this drive.
The Hidden Password
I went to the only place I trusted—Sarah’s repair shop, cluttered with old computers and wires.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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