Inside the dimly lit room, Angela saw the girl sitting on the edge of the bed, her small frame dwarfed by the oversized floral bedspread. Her stepfather, Daniel, stood in front of her, his posture imposing yet restrained. He was speaking, his voice low and controlled, but the girl’s expression was what caught Angela’s breath. Her eyes were vacant, staring at some distant point on the faded wallpaper, as if she were somewhere far away, a place safer than here.
Angela squinted, trying to make sense of the scene. Daniel had laid out several items on the table—a camera, a laptop, and various papers. It looked like he was instructing her, pointing at the screen and gesturing emphatically. The girl nodded occasionally, but her movements were mechanical, as though she were an actor in a play she didn’t want to be in.
A chill ran down Angela’s spine. She backed away from the window, feeling the weight of what she had witnessed. Her mind raced through possible explanations, each more unsettling than the last. She needed to act, but fear gripped her. Who was this man, really? And what exactly was happening in Room 112 every night?
