Chương 7
“She said Emily was overwhelmed.”
My jaw tightened.
“What else?”
My mother was quiet.
“She said Emily had become suspicious of everyone.”
I looked toward the hallway.
Where Ava’s drawings hung on the wall.
Where Emily’s handwriting still existed on old grocery lists.
“Did you believe that?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought you would break.”
I laughed softly.
Everyone had the same excuse.
Protecting me.
Saving me.
Giving me time.
Nobody understood that every secret took away my ability to choose.
That evening, I picked up Ava and Lucas from my mother’s house.
Ava ran to me.
But before she hugged me, she looked over my shoulder.
Checking.
Searching.
Making sure Patricia was not there.
That hurt more than anything.
Children should run toward their parents without fear.
They should not inspect the room first.
On the drive home, Ava was unusually quiet.
Finally, she asked,
“Is she coming back?”
I kept both hands on the steering wheel.
“No.”
“She says sorry sometimes.”
I glanced in the mirror.
Ava was looking out the window.
“She said sorry after she locked us in.”
My chest tightened.
“What did she say?”
“She said she was sorry she got angry.”
Ava picked at the sleeve of her sweater.
“But she wasn’t sorry for the food.”
I swallowed.
“Did she ever hurt you before?”
Ava did not answer.
That silence was an answer.
“Sweetheart.”
“She squeezed my arm once.”
My hands tightened on the wheel.
“When?”
“Before Christmas.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She looked confused.
Not angry.
Confused.
“Because she said you would be upset.”
The words almost made me pull over.
Because she was right.
I would have been upset.
But my daughter had interpreted my anger as something dangerous.
Not something that protected her.
That was a wound I had given her without touching her.
That night, after the children went to sleep, I searched through old emails.
Not because I knew what I was looking for.
Because I needed something concrete.
Something that belonged to the world outside my head.
I searched Patricia’s name.
Hundreds of messages appeared.
School events.
Family updates.
Bills.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a conversation from Emily.
The subject line was simple.
“Please call me.”
There were three messages.
The first was from Emily.
The second was from Patricia.
The third was deleted.
I stared at the empty space where the message should have been.
Then I checked the account history.
The deletion happened two days after Emily died.
My heart started beating faster.
Someone had accessed Emily’s email.
Someone had removed a message.
I checked the login activity.
One unfamiliar device appeared.
The location was not exact.
But it was close.
Very close.
The device had connected from a coffee shop three miles from my house.
A coffee shop Patricia visited every morning.
I grabbed my phone.
Then stopped.
Because I had learned something important.
Evidence did not matter if I destroyed the path to it.
I saved everything.
Screenshots.
Dates.
Device information.
Then I noticed one more thing.
The login happened six months after Emily’s death.
Someone was still searching through her account.
Someone was still looking for something.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No one spoke.
I waited.
Then a voice whispered,
“You should have listened to Emily.”
The call ended.
The call ended, but I kept the phone against my ear for several seconds.
Not because I expected the person to come back.
Because some part of me was still waiting for Emily’s voice.
A voice that could explain everything.
A voice that could tell me I was not too late.
But the only sound was the empty line.
I lowered the phone and sat at the kitchen table.
The same table where Emily recorded the video.
The same table where she had apparently spent her final days trying to protect me from something I refused to see.
I opened the notes app and typed the words before I could forget them.
“You should have listened to Emily.”
Then I stared at the sentence.
Because it was not a threat.
Not exactly.
It sounded like regret.
The person who called me was not trying to scare me into stopping.
They were telling me I had already made the mistake Emily feared.
I called Detective Harris again.
He answered after one ring.
“Something happened?”
“Yes.”
I explained the call.
He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he asked,
“Did the person identify themselves?”
“No.”
“Recognize the voice?”
“No.”
“Male or female?”
I paused.
“I couldn’t tell.”
“That’s okay.”
I hated that phrase.
Everyone kept telling me things were okay when nothing was.
Detective Harris continued.
“Do you still have the call log?”
“Yes.”
“Save it.”
“I already did.”
“Good.”
A pause.
“Are you at home?”
“Yes.”
“Are you alone?”
I looked toward the stairs.
The children were sleeping upstairs.
“No.”
“Stay with them.”
The way he said it made my stomach tighten.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m telling you what I know.”
“And what do you know?”
Another pause.
“We found something unusual about Patricia’s financial records.”
I stood.
“What?”
“We’re still verifying it.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t give you details until we confirm.”
“Detective.”
His voice softened.
“I understand you want answers.”
“I need answers.”
“I know.”
The call ended with no more information.
I hated him for being careful.
Then I hated myself because I knew careful was the only reason evidence survived.
The next morning, I took the children to school myself.
I had missed too many mornings.
Too many small moments.
Ava usually talked nonstop in the car.
She would tell me about a classmate’s strange lunch.
A teacher’s funny mistake.
A drawing she made.
That morning, she watched the road.
Lucas kicked his shoes against the back seat.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Are we moving?”
The question caught me off guard.
“Why would you ask that?”
May you like
“Because when grown-ups are scared, they move.”
I looked at her in the mirror.
