CHAPTER 2 — THE CAR AT THE CURB
The black SUV stopped across the street.
No headlights.
No engine noise that I could hear.
Just a dark vehicle sitting beneath the streetlamp.
Rachel's fingers dug into my arm.
“Don't let them see Emma.”
I pulled my arm away.
“Who are they?”
She didn't answer.
I walked toward the back door.
Rachel grabbed me again.
“Michael, listen to me.”
I turned.
“You have exactly thirty seconds to tell me the truth.”
Her lips trembled.
“If I tell you, they'll know I talked.”
“Who?”
She looked toward the SUV.
“They don't forgive people who talk.”
I stared at her.
Then I heard something.
A car door opening.
Rachel's face went pale.
“Take Emma upstairs.”
“Why?”
“Now.”
I didn't argue.
I scooped Emma into my arms and carried her inside.
As I crossed the kitchen, I noticed the toy bags I'd dropped when I came home.
A pink stuffed unicorn was sticking out of one.
A small wooden dollhouse.
A box of coloring pencils.
Things I'd bought because I wanted to see my daughter's face light up.
Instead, she had spent the evening washing someone else's dishes.
I hated myself for not noticing sooner.
How many times had she tried to tell me?
How many times had I been too busy?
I carried her upstairs.
“Daddy?”
“I'm here.”
“Are we leaving?”
“Not yet.”
“Is Aunt Rachel in trouble?”
I stopped.
“What makes you think that?”
“Because she looks scared.”
Children noticed things adults ignored.
I placed Emma on my bed.
“Stay here.”
She grabbed my hand.
“Don't go.”
“I won't be long.”
“Promise?”
I nodded.
“I promise.”
I locked the bedroom door behind me.
Then I went downstairs.
Rachel was standing in the foyer.
She was staring through the curtains.
“Who are they?”
She shook her head.
“Rachel.”
“They're connected to your father.”
I froze.
“My father?”
She turned.
“You need to understand something.”
“What?”
“Your father didn't die because of an accident.”
The room seemed to tilt.
My father had died eleven years earlier.
A highway accident.
At least, that's what we'd been told.
The official report said his car had lost control during a storm.
No suspicious circumstances.
No investigation.
No mystery.
Just a tragic accident.
“What are you talking about?”
Rachel's voice dropped.
“Your father knew about the money.”
“What money?”
“The money in the notebook.”
I stared at her.
“What does a ledger involving my daughter have to do with my father?”
Rachel shook her head.
“It doesn't start with Emma.”
She paused.
“It starts with you.”
A knock sounded at the front door.
Three slow knocks.
Rachel flinched.
I whispered,
“Who's there?”
No answer.
Another three knocks.
Rachel backed away.
“Don't open it.”
I walked toward the door.
“Michael.”
I looked through the peephole.
Nobody stood there.
I opened the door anyway.
The porch was empty.
But something had been left on the mat.
A white envelope.
No stamp.
No name.
Just my address.
I picked it up.
Rachel whispered,
“Don't.”
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Old.
Faded.
It showed my father standing beside a woman I'd never seen before.
The woman was holding a little girl.
I looked closer.
The little girl was about four years old.
She had dark hair.
A small white ribbon.
And a distinctive birthmark beneath her left ear.
I turned the photograph over.
Three words were written on the back.
SHE REMEMBERED EVERYTHING.
My throat tightened.
“Who is this?”
Rachel didn't answer.
I looked at her.
“Who is the woman?”
Nothing.
“Rachel!”
She closed her eyes.
“Her name was Evelyn.”
“Who was Evelyn?”
“She worked for your father.”
“And the girl?”
Rachel's silence answered me.
I looked at the photograph again.
The little girl couldn't be Emma.
The photograph was too old.
But something about her face felt familiar.
Not because she looked like Emma.
Because she looked like me.
I turned the photograph around.
“Where is she now?”
Rachel whispered,
“Dead.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Evelyn died years ago.”
“And the girl?”
Rachel looked toward the stairs.
“I don't know.”
A sound came from upstairs.
Emma screamed.
I ran.
I took the stairs two at a time.
The bedroom door was still locked.
“Emma!”
“Daddy!”
I unlocked it.
Emma was standing on the bed.
The window was open.
Curtains were blowing in the wind.
I rushed inside.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded, crying.
I looked toward the window.
Someone had been standing outside.
There were footprints on the roof below.
Fresh ones.
I pulled Emma into my arms.
Then I saw something on the windowsill.
A tiny pink envelope.
I picked it up.
Inside was a single sentence.
ASK YOUR FATHER WHO THE REAL OWNER OF THE HOUSE WAS.
I stared at the words.
My father had been dead for eleven years.
But someone was still using him to send me messages.
Someone who knew things nobody should know.
I turned to Rachel.
She stood in the doorway.
I held up the note.
“What house are they talking about?”
Rachel looked at the wall.
“This one.”
“What?”
“This house was never supposed to belong to you.”
I felt the air leave my lungs.
“What are you saying?”
Rachel finally looked me in the eyes.
“Your father didn't leave you this house.”
“Then who did?”
May you like
She whispered,
“Emma's mother.”
