Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 125

Say Cheese.

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73

Sage

The house has gone quiet, the night fully settled over everyone, except me. Conner’s arm is heavy over my waist, his breathing slow and even against the back of my neck. For a while, I just lie there, watching the faint flicker of the hallway light sneaking under the door, trying to convince myself to stay still. But that damn folder won’t leave me alone. It’s been sitting on Conner’s desk all day like a ghost of its own, taunting me, whispering questions I don’t want to answer. I told him that girl wasn’t me. That I buried her a long time ago. And I meant it. But curiosity has a way of clawing through old scars. I slide gently out from under his arm, careful not to wake him. He stirs once, mutters something in his sleep, then stills again. I pull one of his shirts over my tank top, padding barefoot through the hall and down the stairs. The floorboards creak, the air cooler this time of night, carrying the scent of smoke from the dying fire in the lounge. The familiar hum of servers fills the space as I enter Nico’s space, like a low heartbeat, blue lights blinking across tangled cords and papers. I flick on the small desk lamp and sink into the chair.

The chair creaks softly as I settle into it, tugging Conner’s shirt tighter around my shoulders. The fabric smells like him and I almost stop right there. Almost. But the folder’s already open, the screen glowing in front of me like a wound that refuses to close. I type in the access string, and the files spring to life, my file. The name still feels like a lie sitting on someone else’s tongue. But I click anyway. There’s a list of subfolders, medical records, development logs, behaviour reports, and one labelled Guardianship. My hand hesitates for half a heartbeat before clicking. Two faces blink up on the screen. A man and a woman. Mid–thirties at the time. Smiling. Too ordinary to belong to the kind of nightmare that followed. My stomach knots as I scroll down to the report beneath the photo. The text is neat and cold, every line a knife.

Subject voluntarily relinquished by guardians.

Guardians compensated and cleared of further responsibility.

I blink at the words. “Voluntarily relinquished.” Not stolen. Not taken. Given up. Something cracks quietly in my chest, a soundless fracture. I scroll faster, desperate for something, anything that explains why. But there’s nothing. Just a date, a signature, and a closed case stamp. That’s it. I lean back in the chair, staring at the faces again. I don’t recognise them, but the faint ache behind my ribs does. I whisper to the screen, barely audible, “You just… let me go?”

For a long moment, all I can hear is the hum of the servers and the rush of my own pulse. Then I shove the file away. The data ends there, but I don’t.

I open a new window, launching every trace program I’ve built over the years. If there’s a trail, I’ll find it. I dig through old addresses, archived bank accounts, and social media traces buried behind privacy firewalls. The rhythm of typing becomes automatic, my thoughts reduced to pure focus. Finally, a hit. The man, Miguel Romanero, is now listed as an engineer in Madrid. The woman, Lucia Romanero, runs a small bookstore out of their home. The address is recent and current. And there’s more. A birth record. Four years ago. Diego Romanero. Male. Born at Saint Isabel Hospital. My hand stills on the mouse. A son. They have a son. The knot in my chest tightens into something sharp. They built a new life. New child. New start. Without me. I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at the smiling family photo that pops up from Lucia’s shop website, her, Miguel, and a little boy with big brown eyes sitting on her hip. He’s laughing, mouth wide, pure and easy. Something hot stings the back of my eyes, and I press my thumb against it, hard.

The photo stays open longer than I mean it to. At first, I’m just staring at the little boy’s laugh, at the way the sunlight hits his hair. But then my eyes catch something that doesn’t fit. A shadow on his wrist. I zoom in. Once. Twice. The pixels blur, but the shape doesn’t disappear. It’s faint, hidden just beneath the cuff of his sleeve, but I know that kind of mark. A bruise. Not a fall, not a scrape from playing. The colour’s too deep, the pattern too sharp. The kind that comes from fingers. From someone grabbing too hard. My stomach twists. The chair scrapes as I pull forward, hands flying across the keyboard. The easy rhythm of earlier vanishes, replaced with something colder. Focused. I open public records, then sealed ones, digging deeper, faster. Every firewall I hit just makes me angrier. And then I find them.

Miguel Romanero

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Arrest Record.

One for domestic assault, two years ago. Another charge of possession of narcotics was dismissed on a technicality.

1/2

12:31 Wed, Oct 22

Say Cheese.

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73

Lucia Romanero

1

Warning issued for neglect, no formal charges. Probation for prescription fraud.

It keeps going. A long list of second chances and small–town leniencies. The screen burns blue light against my face, each new file another shove in the chest. The smiling photo suddenly looks wrong. Too polished. Too posed. The little boy’s grin feels forced now, like someone told him to say “cheese” through tears. My pulse spikes, loud in my ears. They didn’t just give me up.

They went on pretending. Pretending to be good. Pretending to be safe. And now there’s a child in that house, another kid living under the same roof as the kind of people who sold their first one for convenience and cash. I clench my jaw, knuckles white on the edge of the desk. The part of me that’s supposed to feel pity doesn’t. What I feel is heat, low and ugly and righteous. I run a cross–check on Lucia’s shop. The street cameras outside show clear angles. Their routine uploads, the shop hours, the schedule. Easy enough to track. Miguel’s workplace is the same. Logged under an engineering firm with loose security and wide–open employee access. They’re sloppy and careless. The kind of careless that hurts people who can’t fight back. My hands still for the first time since I sat down.

“I’m not letting it happen again,” I whisper to the dark.

I pull up another program, Nico’s old network tracing system, and start mapping their movements. GPS hits. Bank transactions. Anything that can give me proof. My coffee’s been cold for hours, but I don’t stop. By the time the sky outside starts turning grey, I’ve built a picture I can’t unsee: overdrafts, emergency calls that never became reports, police visits that ended with nothing. And a timestamp from two nights ago–children’s services called, no action taken. My chest feels like it’s filled with fire and ice all at once. I close the window, saving everything onto a private drive.

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