Chapter 6 - NUMBER NINETY-SEVENDarkness swallowed the apartment.
Natalie gasped.
Lily immediately pulled me away from the windows.
“Phones down.”
“My phone has a flashlight.”
“Don’t.”
Her voice was controlled but urgent.
“Stay away from the glass.”
Outside, the hallway emergency lights were still visible beneath my door.
So the building had power.
Only my apartment was dark.
Someone had cut my electricity.
Natalie whispered, “Should we call police?”
“Yes.”
I dialed 911.
While I spoke with the dispatcher, Lily checked the breaker panel.
Every switch had been flipped.
From outside the unit.
The dispatcher told us officers were on the way.
Then came a sound from the hallway.
Slow footsteps.
They stopped directly outside.
Nobody breathed.
A shadow blocked the line of emergency light beneath my door.
Then something slid across the floor.
A white envelope.
The footsteps retreated.
Police arrived eight minutes later.
Inside the envelope was a photograph of Natalie sleeping on my couch the previous night.
Taken through the window.
On the back:
97 DOESN’T HAVE TO BE A PRANK.
That changed everything.
The responding officers treated the situation as a credible threat.
They photographed the envelope, checked the stairwells, reviewed building cameras, and found a man in a baseball cap entering through the garage twenty minutes earlier.
His face was hidden.
Ryan denied involvement when police contacted him.
Evan denied it.
Mason did too.
At 11:40 p.m., Rebecca arrived with an investigator named Marcus Hale, a former federal agent who now handled corporate litigation.
“You’re not staying here tonight,” he said.
Natalie folded her arms.
“Where are we supposed to go?”
“Somewhere Bennett doesn’t know about.”
Lily had access to a short-term rental under a company name.
We left through the underground garage.
On the drive, Marcus explained what had happened at Bennett Capital.
Authorities had arrived before Ryan could leave.
He claimed he was there performing routine backups.
No arrest had been made.
Yet.
“They copied the servers?” I asked.
“A preservation process is underway.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning deleting evidence just became much harder.”
It was nearly dawn before I slept.
When I woke, the entire story had exploded online.
Former prank victims had posted videos.
Madison gave an interview without showing her face.
Haven House announced an internal review.
Bennett Capital released a statement distancing itself from Ryan’s “private entertainment activities.”
Ryan released his own statement.
I watched it once.
He sat in a tasteful home office wearing a gray sweater.
No laughter.
No arrogance.
“I want to apologize to Emma Brooks for a prank that went too far.”
Too far.
As though there were some acceptable distance for convincing someone you were dying.
He continued.
“The blood donation was conducted safely through an authorized program and helped replenish hospital supplies. While my friends and I used poor judgment, allegations connecting our online videos to financial misconduct are false and defamatory.”
Then came the part I expected.
“Emma and I recently experienced relationship difficulties, and I believe people are taking advantage of her emotional state.”
There it was.
The setup.
Unstable Emma.
Bitter ex-girlfriend.
Confused woman.
I turned off the video.
Natalie was furious.
“I want to throw his face into traffic.”
“Don’t. He’ll make you Number Ninety-Eight.”
She laughed despite herself.
Then I realized something.
Ryan expected me to respond emotionally.
He wanted an angry video.
He wanted screaming.
He wanted exactly what he could label unstable.
So I did the opposite.
With Rebecca’s approval, I recorded a seventy-second statement.
“My name is Emma Brooks. Yesterday, I was falsely told that someone I loved had suffered a life-threatening accident. Based on that deception, I voluntarily donated blood. I am grateful the donation may still help a real patient. I will not debate Mr. Bennett online. I have preserved evidence, cooperated with the hospital, and referred the matter to counsel and appropriate authorities. Any other victims who have documentation should preserve it rather than engage publicly.”
I stopped.
Natalie looked at me.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
We posted it.
Within an hour, millions had watched it.
The most shared line was one I hadn’t planned:
I am grateful the donation may still help a real patient.
It shifted the story.
Ryan wanted people laughing at a gullible girlfriend.
Instead, people began asking why a man would weaponize someone’s compassion.
Companies advertising on his prank account withdrew.
Sponsors issued statements.
His subscriber platform suspended monetization.
But the biggest development came at noon.
Evan called me.
I ignored it.
He called again.
Then texted:
I SENT THE ANONYMOUS MESSAGES.
I stared at the screen.
Natalie read over my shoulder.
“He’s the leak.”
Another text:
RYAN DOESN’T KNOW.
PLEASE MEET ME WITH YOUR LAWYER.
Rebecca arranged the meeting at her office.
Evan arrived looking like he hadn’t slept.
No designer jacket.
No jokes.
He carried an external hard drive.
Ryan’s full archive.
“Ninety-six videos,” he said.
“Copies.”
Rebecca didn’t touch it.
“Why are you giving this to us?”
Evan looked at me.
“Because Number Seventy-Three was supposed to be the end.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Lily disappeared, I thought she’d killed herself.”
Lily, who sat across the room, said, “You never checked very hard.”
Evan flinched.
“I was scared.”
“No. You were comfortable.”
He lowered his eyes.
She was right.
He continued.
“I started copying everything after Lily vanished. I kept telling myself I’d expose Ryan if someone got seriously hurt again.”
Madison had needed stitches.
Others had lost jobs.
One man had attempted suicide after a false public accusation.
“How serious did it need to get?” I asked.
Evan had no answer.
“Why leak mine?”
“Because Ryan planned to make your prank the biggest one yet. He had an edited follow-up ready. He wanted to destroy you.”
“Why?”
“Not Chloe.”
“I know.”
His eyes widened.
“You know about Haven House?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know too much.”
Rebecca leaned forward.
“What’s on the drive?”
“Everything.”
“Financial records?”
“Some.”
“Threats?”
“Yes.”
“Who sent the Number Ninety-Seven photograph?”
Evan looked genuinely confused.
“What photograph?”
Rebecca showed him.
His face changed.
“That isn’t Ryan’s design.”
“What does that mean?”
“The numbers always look different.”
He enlarged the red 97.
“This font. This layout.”
He looked at Lily.
“That’s Mr. Bennett.”
Ryan’s father.
Charles Bennett.
Lily’s face went rigid.
Evan whispered, “Ryan’s dad created the original list.”
Nobody spoke.
“The pranks weren’t Ryan’s idea?” I asked.
“Not at first.”
Evan shook his head.
“When Ryan was sixteen, his father made him punish an employee who accused the company of fraud.”
A chill moved through the room.
“What number?”
Evan swallowed.
“Number One.”
“And what happened to him?”
“He went to prison.”
“For what?”
“Embezzlement.”
Lily stood.
“He didn’t embezzle anything.”
Evan looked at her.
“I know.”
“Who was he?”
Evan hesitated.
Then said the name.
“Daniel Grant.”
May you like
Lily went completely still.
“My father.”
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