My name is Anna. I’m 38 years old, and I’m raising my ten-year-old daughter, Emma, on my own.
My father, Richard, is 75.
After my mother passed away, he lived alone in a small house not far from the beach.
Emma absolutely adored her grandfather.
Every weekend, she would beg me:
“Mommy, can I go to the beach with Grandpa?”
I never said no.
My father had always been a caring, loving man.
But over the past two months, something about his behavior had changed.
Every weekend, he started taking Emma to the same beachfront hotel.
At first, I assumed they were simply having lunch there or enjoying the swimming pool.
But one afternoon, I found a hotel key card inside Emma’s backpack.
The number printed on it was 214.
When I asked her why she had a hotel room key, she became nervous.
“Grandpa said you shouldn’t worry.”
