At 12:18, I was eating noodles on the floor of my temporary studio when Dad called. I watched his name flash across my screen and let it stop.
A text followed.
“What did you do to the elevator?”
Eleven seconds later, he called again.
Then Madison sent me a photograph.
Three access cards were lined up across her palm.
Every one of them had turned red.
### Part 4
The messages told me exactly what happened. Dad had returned in a rented SUV packed with Logan and Madison’s luggage, camera equipment, and boxes of custom furniture. He walked them toward the private elevator like a man unveiling an inheritance.
He tapped his card.
Red.
Logan tried his. Red. Madison tried the garage and service entrances. Nothing worked.
The property director met them downstairs and showed Dad my signed surrender. They could retrieve his belongings later with security present, but nobody could stay in a unit that had been returned to the owner.
At call nineteen, Dad stopped ordering and started bargaining. “Call me. We can discuss your feelings after you fix this.”