Chương 5
He walked to the kitchen slowly, not because he was afraid of what he would find, but because some part of him already understood that whatever waited inside that drawer would change the way he remembered the past few months.
The drawer was beside the refrigerator.
The same drawer where he kept batteries, old receipts, spare keys, and things nobody wanted to throw away.
He pulled it open.
At first, he saw nothing unusual.
A flashlight.
A pack of unused envelopes.
A screwdriver.
A collection of random objects that had gathered there because life moved too quickly for anyone to organize them.
Then he noticed the folder underneath everything else.
It was thin.
Black.
Without a label.
Stallone stared at it for several seconds before touching it.
He hated that he hesitated.
Not because he was scared of the truth.
Because he was scared of how much of it had already been sitting near him.
He pulled the folder out and placed it on the counter.
Inside were printed photographs.
Not many.
Just enough.
The first picture showed Emma sitting alone on the living room floor.
The second showed her standing near the hallway, looking toward a room where the adults were talking.
The third showed her wiping her face with the sleeve of her pajamas.
Stallone felt his jaw tighten.
There was no violence in the photographs.
No obvious proof of anything.
Just moments.
Small moments.
The kind people dismissed because they did not look serious enough.
But he knew his daughter.
He knew the difference between Emma being quiet because she was playing and Emma being quiet because she was trying not to be noticed.
Under the photographs was a folded piece of paper.
He opened it carefully.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
I tried to tell you.
The sentence was written at the top.
Below it was a list of dates.
Dates when someone had seen Emma crying.
Dates when someone had heard arguments.
Dates when someone had noticed changes.
Stallone read each one slowly.
The first date was almost two months earlier.
The same week Emma stopped asking him to read bedtime stories.
His hand stopped moving.
A memory returned.
Emma sitting on his office floor, holding her book.
He had been looking at emails.
She had asked him three times.
He had answered three times.
Just a minute.
Just a minute.
Just a minute.
Eventually she walked away.
At the time, he thought she was being impatient.
Now he wondered if she had simply learned not to ask.
The phone buzzed again.
He looked at the screen.
The unknown number had sent another message.
I worked in the house before her.
Stallone looked around.
The woman was still in the living room.
The bodyguard was standing near the stairs.
Everyone was still there.
Everyone was connected to the same house.
But suddenly the house felt like it had rooms he had never entered.
He typed back.
Who are you?
The response took longer this time.
Long enough for him to wonder if the person had changed their mind.
Then the message appeared.
My name is Claire.
I was Emma's nanny before your wife hired her.
Stallone stared at the phone.
The woman downstairs was not his wife.
Not anymore.
But the message still felt strange.
Because the person who wrote it did not know that.
Or maybe she knew something he did not.
He walked into the living room.
The woman looked up.
"Who is Claire?"
The change in her face was immediate.
It lasted less than a second.
But it happened.
Recognition.
Fear.
Then control.
"I don't know."
Stallone watched her.
The lie was too fast.
People usually needed time to create lies.
Unless they had practiced them.
"Try again."
Her shoulders lowered.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because you know her."
She looked away.
The older girl, sitting quietly on the sofa, noticed the reaction too.
That was the thing about children.
They often missed complicated explanations.
But they noticed changes.
"Who is Claire?" the girl asked.
The woman looked toward her.
"Go upstairs."
The girl stayed seated.
For the first time that night, she did not obey.
The woman looked frustrated.
"Please."
The word sounded different.
Not like an order.
Like a request.
The girl looked down.
Then slowly stood.
Stallone waited until she left.
"She worked here for six months," the woman said.
"Why did you say you didn't know her?"
The woman rubbed her forehead.
"Because I knew where this was going."
"Where?"
"To me being the only person everyone blames."
Stallone shook his head.
"No."
His voice stayed calm.
"To you answering questions."
The woman looked at him.
There was anger there again.
But underneath it was something else.
Embarrassment.
"You don't understand."
"Then explain."
She walked to the window.
Outside, the neighborhood looked peaceful.
Porch lights.
Parked cars.
People living ordinary lives.
"I fired her."
"Why?"
"Because she was trying to interfere."
Stallone felt his stomach tighten.
"Interfere with what?"
The woman did not answer.
That was becoming her most common answer.
Silence.
Avoidance.
A delay.
Every time she avoided something, another piece of the truth appeared.
"She said I was too harsh."
"Was she wrong?"
The woman closed her eyes.
For a moment, Stallone saw something unexpected.
Not cruelty.
Regret.
"I don't know anymore."
That was the first truly honest thing she had said.
The bodyguard came closer.
"Mr. Stallone."
They both looked at him.
He held his phone.
"I found something."
Stallone walked over.
"What?"
The bodyguard turned the screen around.
It was an old message thread.
Between him and Claire.
The last message was from three weeks earlier.
I think you need to know what is happening.
The bodyguard's face was pale.
"I never saw this."
"Why?"
He looked confused.
"I changed phones."
Stallone stared.
"Then how did this get here?"
The bodyguard looked at the screen.
"I don't know."
That answer bothered him.
May you like
Not because it sounded suspicious.
Because there were now too many things nobody knew.
