Chapter 4 - Room 318The police wanted to take the key.
I refused.
Not because I trusted myself more than them.
Because I knew the number.
It was the number of my grandmother's apartment.
The apartment she supposedly sold fifteen years ago.
The apartment my family never discussed.
I told Daniel.
His face went pale.
“You know what that means?”
“No.”
But he did.
I could see it.
“Daniel.”
He finally spoke.
“Your grandmother never sold it.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“She gave it to your mother.”
I felt dizzy.
“Why would Mom lie about that?”
“Because your grandmother died angry.”
“Angry at who?”
He didn't answer.
I called my mother.
This time she picked up immediately.
“Rachel.”
“Where is apartment 318?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
“Who told you?”
I looked at Daniel.
“Answer me.”
“You have no business going there.”
“Why?”
“Because it should have stayed buried.”
My skin prickled.
“What should have stayed buried?”
She hung up.
I stared at the phone.
Then I made a decision.
I was going there.
That evening, Daniel drove me to the old apartment building.
The hallway smelled like dust and old paint.
Apartment 318 was at the end.
The door was locked.
The silver key fit perfectly.
Inside, everything looked frozen in time.
A dusty sofa.
A broken lamp.
Old family photographs.
And a dining table covered with a white sheet.
I walked farther inside.
On the wall was a photograph of me as a little girl.
I was maybe five.
My sister stood beside me.
My mother was behind us.
My father wasn't smiling.
I stared at the picture.
There was something strange.
Someone had scratched a date from the bottom.
Daniel noticed.
“What's wrong?”
I pointed.
“Why would someone remove the date?”
He pulled the frame down.
Behind it was a small envelope.
My name was written on it.
Rachel.
My hands trembled.
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
Emma.
At a playground.
Taken only six months ago.
I stared at it.
“That can't be…”
Daniel stepped closer.
“Who took it?”
I turned the photograph over.
Three words were written on the back.
She was watching.
I heard a noise.
A floorboard creaked behind us.
I spun around.
Nobody.
Then the apartment door slammed shut.
Daniel rushed toward it.
Locked.
From the inside.
He pulled harder.
Nothing.
Then we heard footsteps in the hallway.
Slow.
Measured.
Coming toward us.
I grabbed a heavy lamp.
The footsteps stopped directly outside.
Someone slid a sheet of paper beneath the door.
Then silence.
Daniel picked it up.
My name was written across the top.
I opened it.
Only one sentence.
Ask your father why Emma was born exactly nine months after his last visit to your grandmother.
I stared at the words.
Daniel looked at me.
“Rachel…”
I shook my head.
“No.”
The footsteps began again.
But this time they were moving away.
We finally opened the door.
The hallway was empty.
At the far end, the elevator doors were closing.
A shadow disappeared behind them.
I ran toward it.
The doors shut.
I pressed the button repeatedly.
Too late.
When I returned, Daniel was standing in the apartment.
He was holding another photograph.
His hands were shaking.
“Rachel.”
“What?”
He turned it toward me.
It was a picture of my mother.
Holding a newborn baby.
The date was written underneath.
May you like
Twenty years earlier.
And the baby wasn't me.
