Chapter 5 - The BasementThe police searched the house.
There was no child upstairs.
No hidden speaker.
No one in the hallway.
But they found something else.
A loose floorboard beneath Margaret's bedroom rug.
Under it was a small metal box.
Margaret refused to let anyone open it.
That alone told me enough.
Detective Harris opened it.
Inside were photographs.
Dozens of them.
Children.
Mostly Lily.
But some were unfamiliar.
Then I saw Maisie's face.
Not a photograph of Maisie.
A photograph of me holding her outside the hospital after she was born.
My hands went cold.
“How did she get this?”
Evan didn't answer.
I turned toward him.
“How?”
He looked confused.
“I've never seen that photograph.”
Detective Harris examined it.
“When was this taken?”
I told him.
The day Maisie was born.
He stared at the photograph.
Then flipped it over.
There was writing.
Subject confirmed.
My blood froze.
“What does that mean?”
Rebecca stepped forward.
“She wasn't chosen randomly.”
I stared at her.
“Who?”
“Maisie.”
“Chosen for what?”
Rebecca looked toward Margaret.
Margaret said nothing.
Then Detective Harris found a second document.
It was a medical report.
Maisie's name was on it.
But there was something impossible.
The report was dated three months before Maisie was born.
I grabbed it.
“This is fake.”
Detective Harris shook his head.
“No.”
He pointed at the signature.
“This doctor is real.”
I looked at Evan.
“Did you know about this?”
“No.”
“Did your mother?”
He hesitated.
That was enough.
I turned toward Margaret.
“What did you do?”
Margaret's eyes filled with tears.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
She looked at Maisie.
“From them.”
“Who are they?”
She didn't answer.
Then the basement door opened.
Everyone turned.
A cold draft moved through the hallway.
Detective Harris drew his flashlight.
“I thought that door was locked.”
Margaret whispered:
“It was.”
We went downstairs.
The basement smelled damp.
At the far end stood an old wooden cabinet.
Behind it was another door.
Rebecca began crying.
“No.”
I asked:
“What?”
She pointed.
“That door wasn't there twenty years ago.”
Detective Harris opened it.
Inside was a narrow room.
There was a child's bed.
A small wooden chair.
And dozens of drawings taped to the walls.
Most showed the same woman.
Margaret.
And beside her was a little girl.
Lily.
I stepped closer.
One drawing was dated twenty years ago.
Underneath it, in childish handwriting:
Grandma says Mommy isn't coming back.
Rebecca collapsed.
Evan stared at the wall.
Then he whispered:
“I remember this room.”
I looked at him.
“You've been here before.”
He nodded.
“When I was eight.”
“What happened to Lily?”
He stared at the empty bed.
Then said:
“She wasn't kidnapped.”
My heart stopped.
“She was taken.”
“By who?”
May you like
Evan looked directly at Margaret.
“My mother.”
