PART 2: The Missing Minutes
PART 2: The Missing Minutes
By morning, the hospital stopped feeling like a place of treatment and started feeling like a place of questions nobody wanted to answer.
Chloe still hadn’t spoken.
Not because she refused.
Because she couldn’t.
A surgeon explained it again like it was a technical issue, something on a checklist.
“The fractures are affecting her ability to form words. Even small movements are painful. She’s conscious, but communication will be limited for a while.”
I nodded like I understood.
But all I could think was simpler than that.
Someone had done this to her.
And then left her there like nothing mattered.
At 6:10 a.m., two campus police officers arrived.
They didn’t rush. They didn’t look surprised. They looked prepared. Like they had already rehearsed whatever version of events they were about to give me.
The taller one introduced himself as Officer Landry.
“We’re handling the investigation,” he said, flipping open a small notebook. “Your daughter was found behind the east science hall. No immediate signs of the attacker in the area.”
I stared at him. “No signs?”
He nodded. “Rain washed most tracks. Foot traffic was light at that hour.”
“Light?” I repeated. “It’s a university campus, not a ghost town.”
The second officer cleared his throat. “Sir, we’re doing everything we can.”
That sentence again. Always the same sentence when nobody had answers.
Or worse—when they already had them and didn’t want to say.
I leaned forward. “Show me the footage.”
A pause.
Officer Landry exchanged a look with his partner. Just a fraction of a second, but I caught it.
“We’re still reviewing it with IT,” he said.
That’s when I knew something was off.
Because in my world—my old world—footage didn’t take time.
Footage either existed or it didn’t.
I stood up. “Then I’ll review it with you.”
The officer gave a tight smile. “Sir, that’s not how protocol—”
“I don’t care about protocol,” I cut in. My voice came out sharper than I intended. Chloe shifted slightly in the bed behind me, and I lowered it immediately. “My daughter is in that bed because someone did this. So either you show me what you have, or I find someone who will.”
Silence.
Then Landry closed his notebook.
“Let’s go to the security office,” he said.
The campus security building sat near the edge of the university grounds, half-lit and strangely quiet for a place supposedly managing thousands of students.
Inside, the air smelled like stale coffee and overheated electronics.
A young technician sat behind a desk stacked with monitors. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a day.
“This is Mr. Vance,” Landry said. “He’d like to see the footage from Thursday night.”
The technician hesitated. “Which feed?”
“East science hall,” I said immediately. “Between 10:30 and midnight.”
Another pause.
Then he clicked a few keys.
The screen flickered.
And for a moment, I felt something shift in my chest.
Because the footage didn’t play.
It jumped.
Frames missing.
Whole minutes gone.
“Where’s the rest?” I asked.
The technician swallowed. “That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out.”
Landry stepped closer. “Explain.”
“We have partial corruption,” the technician said quickly. “The system reset itself around 11:09 p.m. It happens sometimes during network maintenance.”
I stared at him.
“You’re telling me cameras near a major crime scene just… reset themselves?”
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
That was answer enough.
I leaned over the desk. “Show me the logs.”
The technician hesitated again, then pulled up a system report.
At first, everything looked normal.
Until I saw the timestamp.
11:07 p.m. — manual override initiated
I pointed at it. “What is that?”
He blinked. “That… shouldn’t be there.”
Officer Landry stepped in. “Who has access?”
“Only two accounts,” the technician said. “Mine… and administrative override.”
“Who’s admin?”
The technician didn’t answer immediately.
That delay told me more than words ever could.
Finally, he said it.
“The Dean’s office.”
The room went quiet.
Even the hum of the machines seemed to fade.
I felt something cold spread through my body.
“Run it again,” I said.
The technician did.
Same result.
11:07 p.m. — manual override initiated
But this time, I noticed something new.
A sub-log entry hidden beneath the reset marker.
A secondary login.
Not admin.
Not technician.
A personal credential.
And it wasn’t unfamiliar.
It belonged to someone on campus.
Someone whose name I hadn’t heard yet—but would soon.
Officer Landry straightened slightly. “We’ll take this information and continue the investigation internally.”
I laughed once.
No humor in it.
“No,” I said quietly. “You’re not taking anything.”
I pulled my phone out and took a photo of the screen before anyone could stop me.
Landry’s expression tightened. “Sir, that’s not permitted—”
“You know what’s not permitted?” I interrupted. “A hospital bed full of broken bones and missing footage in the same sentence.”
No one spoke after that.
But as I walked out of that security office, I felt it.
Not clarity.
Direction.
Someone had erased those minutes for a reason.
And whoever controlled that footage didn’t just want Chloe hurt.
They wanted her erased from the story entirely.
Back in the hospital, I sat beside her again.
She was awake now.
Her one good eye followed me slowly.
I took her hand.
“Chloe,” I whispered, “I’m going to find who did this.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around mine.
Not enough to speak.
But enough to answer.
And for the first time since that phone call, I understood something clearly.
This wasn’t just an attack.
It was a cover-up already in motion.
And I had just walked into the part where they started making sure I would be next.
