Chapter 2 - Whitney arrived forty-two minutes later.She walked into my hospital room carrying a grocery bag.
Inside were two folders.
My name.
Her name.
Written in my father's handwriting.
She put them on the chair.
Neither of us touched them.
For almost a full minute, we simply stared.
“Open yours,” I said.
Whitney shook her head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because what if it's something innocent?”
I almost laughed.
“Innocent?”
She looked at me.
“You're the one who called me tonight because they lied about you.”
“Fair point.”
She pulled out my folder first.
The paper was yellowed.
Old.
There was a date written in the upper corner.
August 17.
The year we turned eighteen.
My mouth went dry.
“What happened August 17?”
Whitney looked at me.
“That was two days before you left for college.”
I remembered.
Mom had packed my suitcase.
Dad had driven me to campus.
I had cried in the driveway.
Whitney had hugged me.
She had said, Call me.
I had promised I would.
Then we had drifted.
Or at least I thought we had.
Whitney opened the folder.
The first page wasn't a letter.
It was a list.
THINGS TO TELL CLARAUnderneath were bullet points.
Whitney needs more support right now.
Do not encourage Clara to move back home.
If Clara asks about family money, say there isn't any available.
Keep conversations between sisters limited.
My heart stopped.
“Read the next one.”
Whitney turned the page.
Important: Do not let either girl know the other has asked questions.
I looked at my sister.
“Why would they care whether we talked?”
“I don't know.”
Another page.
This one had dates beside our names.
September 4: Clara called Whitney.
October 11: Whitney asked about Clara.
November 2: Clara expressed anger.
November 18: Whitney told mother she felt guilty.
January 7: Keep distance.
January 14: Father speak to Clara.
“What is this?” I whispered.
Whitney's face was pale.
“It looks like a log.”
“A log of what?”
“Us.”
I turned the page.
At the bottom, my father's handwriting appeared.
Conflict between the girls is preferable to shared suspicion.
The room went silent.
I felt sick.
“Shared suspicion of what?”
Whitney didn't answer.
She opened her own folder.
The first page contained a handwritten sentence.
Whitney must never believe Clara chose herself over the family.
She looked up sharply.
I stared at the page.
“What?”
Whitney turned it around so I could see.
There were more instructions underneath.
If Clara leaves home, explain her absence as abandonment.
If Clara becomes successful, describe it as selfishness.
If Clara asks Whitney for help, imply she is manipulating her.
My chest tightened.
“They planned this.”
Whitney nodded slowly.
“Looks like it.”
“No.”
I pointed at the page.
“They wrote this before we even left for college.”
Whitney's lips parted.
“That means…”
“They weren't reacting to us.”
“They were controlling us.”
Neither of us spoke.
My mind ran backward through fifteen years.
The fight at Christmas.
The college graduation I thought Whitney had skipped because she didn't care.
The wedding invitation she supposedly declined.
The baby shower she "couldn't attend."
The phone calls Mom told me Whitney ignored.
The birthday card I thought Whitney never sent.
The times Dad said, “Don't bother her.”
And every time Whitney had looked at me with hurt.
Every time I had looked at her with resentment.
We had been fighting a war neither of us knew had been designed.
Whitney began turning pages faster.
“Look.”
There were copies of emails.
Old printed emails.
One from my college roommate.
One from an aunt.
One from my grandmother.
The messages all had one thing in common.
They had apparently been sent to my parents after someone had asked how I was doing.
But in the margins, my father's handwriting said:
Do not forward.
“Why would they hide emails about us?”
Whitney kept reading.
Then she froze.
“What?”
She pointed to one line.
I leaned closer.
It was an email from my grandmother.
I heard Clara and Whitney aren't speaking. What happened?
Below it, Dad had written:
Tell her Clara is angry at Whitney over money.
I stared.
“There wasn't a money fight.”
“I know.”
“Grandma believed it.”
Whitney nodded.
A terrible realization settled between us.
“They weren't just lying to us.”
“They were lying to everyone.”
A knock came at the door.
We both jumped.
The nurse stepped inside.
“Sorry. Just checking on you.”
She looked at the documents.
“Everything okay?”
I quickly covered them.
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“You should be resting.”
“I will.”
After she left, Whitney whispered, “We can't keep these here.”
“Why?”
“Because Mom knows I'm here.”
“So?”
“She texted me.”
I looked up.
“What did she say?”
Whitney unlocked her phone.
The message was only six words.
Don't let Clara open the blue folder.
I stared at it.
“What blue folder?”
Whitney swallowed.
“I don't know.”
Then another text appeared.
This time from Dad.
Come home. We need to talk.
Whitney looked at me.
“Why would they suddenly care?”
I had no answer.
Then I noticed something.
At the bottom of my folder, beneath all the old papers, was a small key taped to the inside cover.
A handwritten label hung from it.
BLUE ROOM.
I looked at Whitney.
“What's the Blue Room?”
She shook her head.
“I've never heard of one.”
I remembered my childhood home.
There had been a storage room at the end of the upstairs hallway.
The door had always been painted blue.
Dad called it the office.
We were never allowed inside.
My stomach twisted.
“Whitney.”
“What?”
“The Blue Room was in our house.”
She stared at me.
“I remember.”
“The door had a lock.”
“Yes.”
“And Dad always kept the key.”
Whitney looked down at the little brass key in my hand.
Neither of us breathed.
Then her phone rang.
Mom.
Whitney declined the call.
It rang again.
And again.
Then a final message appeared.
If you open that room, you will destroy this family.
Whitney looked at me.
May you like
I looked at the key.
And for the first time in fifteen years, we were standing on the same side of the door.
Related Stories
