PART 3 — THE ROOM BENEATH MY MOTHER’S HOUSE
Friday was lockdown day.
The words echoed inside my skull like they had been waiting thirty years for someone to unlock the door.
I stared at the photograph on the officer’s phone.
Eight-year-old me.
Nine-year-old Sarah.
My mother standing behind us with one hand on each of our shoulders.
And that red notebook pressed against my chest.
HOUSE RULES — MARCUS.
“I don’t remember this,” I whispered.
The officer studied me carefully.
“Nothing?”
“No.”
Chloe squeezed my hand.
“Uncle Marcus?”
I looked down.
Her face was pale.
“You okay?”
I forced myself to nod.
“Yeah, kiddo.”
It was a lie.
Something inside my head had started cracking open.
Not memories exactly.
Fragments.
The smell of damp concrete.
A metal door closing.
A light bulb swinging overhead.
Sarah crying somewhere I couldn’t see her.
And my mother’s voice saying:
“Good children learn silence.”
I stumbled backward and grabbed the kitchen counter.
The female officer stepped toward me.
“Sir?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I said I’m fine.”
My voice came out harsher than I intended.
Chloe flinched.
The moment I saw her reaction, shame washed through me.
I crouched immediately.
“Hey. I’m sorry. That wasn’t at you.”
She nodded carefully.
I hated how quickly she forgave adults.
Children shouldn’t have to become experts at predicting moods.
The officer’s radio crackled.
A dispatcher said something about Sarah being transported to Harborview for evaluation.
Then another unit reported no contact yet at my mother’s residence.
My head snapped up.
“You sent officers there?”
“We’re checking the address.”
“Is my mother home?”
“No response at the door.”
Of course there wasn’t.
My mother, Evelyn Reed, answered every phone call.
Every knock.
Every neighbor.
Every church friend.
She was seventy-one years old and treated missing a phone call like a personal failure.
If she wasn’t answering now, she knew.
David had warned her.
Or Nathan had.
“Call her,” the officer suggested.
I almost laughed.
“I don’t even know what I’d say.”
“Sometimes people reveal information when they don’t know police are listening.”
That made sense.
I pulled out my phone.
My mother’s contact photo appeared.
She was smiling beside a birthday cake.
The picture had been taken six months earlier.
Chloe was sitting on her lap.
I suddenly wanted to smash the phone against the wall.
Instead, I pressed CALL.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Then:
“Marcus.”
She answered.
No hello.
No warmth.
Just my name.
“Mom.”
Silence.
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
I looked at the officer.
She shook her head.
Police were standing outside that home.
“No, you’re not.”
Another pause.
“Why are you asking?”
“Because police are outside your house.”
Her voice changed almost imperceptibly.
“Why would police be at my house?”
“Chloe told us about the garage.”
Absolute silence.
It lasted maybe four seconds.
But those four seconds told me everything.
“Mom?”
“You shouldn’t question children when they’re frightened.”
My stomach turned.
“What’s behind the garage door?”
“Old storage.”
“Chloe says there are stairs.”
“She’s five.”
“She says Sarah used to go down there.”
My mother exhaled slowly.
“Marcus, children create stories.”
“Then why do I have a picture of myself holding a red book labeled HOUSE RULES?”
Nothing.
I heard movement on her end.
A car door maybe.
“Mom, where are you?”
“You’re upset.”
“Answer me.”
“I think we should talk when you’re calmer.”
“No.”
“Marcus—”
“You starved us, didn’t you?”
Chloe looked up at me.
I turned slightly away from her.
My mother’s voice became cold.
“I fed both of you.”
“Did you lock us downstairs?”
No answer.
“Did you?”
“You were difficult children.”
My heart stopped.
The officer beside me went completely still.
“What did you just say?”
“You don’t remember how difficult things were after your father left.”
“Dad didn’t leave until I was twelve.”
Another silence.
That was when I knew I had caught her.
My mother recovered quickly.
“You’re confused.”
“No. You are.”
“Marcus—”
“Where are you?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead she said:
“Where’s Chloe?”
I looked toward my niece.
“Safe.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
My mother’s tone softened suddenly.
Too suddenly.
“Bring her to me.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“No.”
“She needs family.”
“She has family.”
“I’m her grandmother.”
“And you’re never getting near her again.”
My mother inhaled sharply.
“You have no idea what Sarah has done.”
There it was again.
Everyone blaming someone else.
David blamed Sarah.
Nathan supposedly came to “help” Sarah.
My mother blamed Sarah.
“What has she done?”
My mother hesitated.
“Ask her who introduced David to the family.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“Ask Sarah.”
“Mom—”
The call ended.
I stared at the screen.
The officer immediately said:
“We’ll request a trace if legally available, but if she’s moving, it may take time.”
I barely heard her.
Because I remembered meeting David.
Three years ago.
Sarah brought him to Thanksgiving.
At least that was how I remembered it.
He walked into my mother’s house carrying two bottles of wine.
My mother hugged him.
I had thought she was just being welcoming.
But now another detail surfaced.
She hadn’t asked his name.
She had said:
“You finally made it.”
I felt nauseated.
They knew each other.
Long before Sarah supposedly introduced him.
I turned to the officer.
“My mother knew David before he started dating Sarah.”
“You’re certain?”
“No.”
I pressed my palms against my temples.
“I don’t know what I’m certain about anymore.”
Then Chloe spoke quietly.
“Grandma calls him Danny.”
The room went silent.
I looked down.
“What?”
“She calls David Danny.”
“That’s not his name.”
Chloe shrugged.
“She says David is his outside name.”
The female officer immediately wrote that down.
“Does she call Nathan something different?”
Chloe thought for a moment.
“Mr. Gray.”
My pulse quickened.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
The officer asked gently:
“Does Grandma have another name?”
Chloe nodded.
“Miss Eve.”
Eve.
Evelyn.
The officer and I exchanged a look.
These weren’t family nicknames.
They sounded like aliases.
“Chloe,” I asked, “when you went to Grandma’s house, who took you?”
“Mommy sometimes.”
My stomach clenched.
“And other times?”
“David.”
“Did Mommy go inside with you?”
Chloe shook her head.
“No.”
“Did she know you went there?”
“I don’t know.”
I closed my eyes.
Sarah might have been part of this.
Or she might have been manipulated as badly as Chloe.
I needed to hear it from her.
“I’m going to the hospital.”
The officer immediately objected.
“You should remain here with the child.”
“I’m not leaving Chloe.”
“Then you shouldn’t take her into a hospital where her mother is being treated after an assault and police interviews.”
She was right.
I hated that she was right.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“We can arrange for a child protection specialist to come here. Until custody is clarified, she can remain with you temporarily if authorities approve.”
Chloe grabbed my shirt.
“I want to stay with Uncle Marcus.”
The officer softened.
“We’ll do everything we can to keep you somewhere safe.”
Safe.
That word seemed foreign in my family.
Twenty minutes later, another officer arrived with a child services worker named Denise.
She was probably in her fifties, wore plain clothes, and didn’t carry herself like someone who expected Chloe to trust her immediately.
I liked that.
She sat on the floor six feet away from Chloe and started drawing a cat.
Not asking questions.
Not demanding answers.
Just drawing badly.
Chloe watched.
“That doesn’t look like a cat,” she finally whispered.
Denise smiled.
“I was afraid of that.”
For the first time since David arrived, Chloe almost smiled.
My phone rang.
Hospital.
Sarah.
I stepped into the hallway but kept Chloe where I could see her.
“Sarah?”
“I’m okay.”
Her voice sounded exhausted.
“What happened?”
“Nathan broke the bedroom window. I locked myself in the bathroom. He ran when he heard sirens.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“Just bruises.”
“Sarah, I need you to tell me the truth.”
She went quiet.
“The whole truth.”
“I know.”
“Did you know Mom knew David before you started dating him?”
Silence.
That was answer enough.
“Sarah.”
“Yes.”
The word came out broken.
I closed my eyes.
“How?”
“I didn’t meet David at work like I told everyone.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“At Mom’s house.”
My chest tightened.
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
“Why was he there?”
Sarah began crying.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t do that.”
“I swear.”
“You dated a man you randomly met inside Mom’s house and never asked why he was there?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then explain it.”
She took a shaky breath.
“Mom told me he was the son of an old family friend. She said he had recently moved back to Seattle.”
“Back from where?”
“She never said.”
“And you believed her?”
“At first.”
“What changed?”
“About six months after we started dating, I woke up one night and David wasn’t in bed.”
I waited.
“I found him downstairs going through an old photo album.”
“What album?”
“One from our childhood.”
My throat tightened.
“He was looking at pictures of you?”
“Both of us.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he couldn’t sleep.”
“And you believed him?”
“No.”
Sarah paused.
“Because one photograph was missing afterward.”
My hands went cold.
“What photograph?”
“The one of us holding the red book.”
I leaned against the wall.
The same photograph police had now found clipped inside the book.
“David took it.”
“I think so.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t remember the book either.”
Her voice dropped.
“But after that night, I started having dreams.”
My heart started pounding.
“What kind of dreams?”
“Being downstairs.”
I couldn’t speak.
“Concrete walls,” she continued. “A light bulb. You crying in another room. Mom counting backward from ten.”
A memory hit me so violently I nearly dropped the phone.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
My mother standing above a staircase.
Seven.
Sarah gripping my hand.
Six.
A red notebook.
Five.
A metal latch.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Marcus?”
“I remember the counting.”
Sarah stopped breathing.
“You do?”
“Pieces.”
“Oh God.”
“What happened down there?”
“I don’t know all of it.”
“You have to know something.”
“I remember punishment.”
My throat closed.
“What punishment?”
“Food.”
Chloe’s question at dinner echoed through my head.
Am I allowed to eat today?
Sarah continued.
“Mom used food to control us.”
I stared through the hallway toward Chloe.
History hadn’t just repeated itself.
Someone had recreated it deliberately.
“Water days?”
Sarah started sobbing.
“Yes.”
I nearly punched the wall.
Instead, I whispered:
“David learned it from Mom.”
“I think so.”
“Why would she teach him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sarah, twenty-three children are listed in that book.”
She went silent.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I knew there were other children.”
My stomach dropped.
“How many?”
“I saw three.”
“When?”
“When I was a kid.”
The hallway seemed to tilt.
“Where?”
“Mom’s basement.”
“She doesn’t have a basement.”
“Yes, she does.”
I swallowed.
“Under the garage.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to those kids?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never wondered?”
“I forgot them, Marcus!”
Her voice cracked.
“I forgot everything. I didn’t remember until Chloe started acting strange last year.”
That stopped me.
“Last year?”
“She began hiding food in her bedroom. Bread. Crackers. Once I found half a banana under her pillow.”
“And you didn’t do anything?”
“I asked David.”
“You asked David?”
“I thought she had anxiety!”
“He was starving her!”
“I didn’t know!”
Her voice broke completely.
Then she whispered:
“He told me children sometimes manipulate parents with food.”
I wanted to scream.
“Sarah, why would you believe that?”
“Because Mom told me the same thing.”
There it was.
Generations of damage disguised as parenting.
“What made you finally realize?”
“Three nights ago, Chloe woke me up.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she had been bad.”
“Why?”
“She ate something.”
I felt sick.
“What?”
“A strawberry.”
My eyes burned.
“One strawberry?”
“She stole it from the refrigerator.”
I covered my mouth.
“David made her stand facing a wall for four hours.”
My vision blurred with rage.
“And you let him?”
“No! I came home and found her there.”
“What did you do?”
“I lost it. I screamed at David. He told me she needed discipline. I told him to get out.”
“And?”
“He laughed.”
I waited.
“He said it wasn’t my house.”
“What?”
“The mortgage is in my name, Marcus. I bought that house before I met him.”
“I know.”
“He said that didn’t matter.”
“Why?”
“He said Mom had already signed everything over.”
My stomach tightened.
“Signed what over?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I was trying to find when I told you I was going to Portland.”
The conference had never existed.
Sarah had created three days to investigate.
“I needed Chloe somewhere safe,” she continued. “But I was afraid if I told you everything, you’d confront David immediately.”
“You were right about that.”
“I know.”
“So you lied.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Keep going.”
“Yesterday, while David thought I was at work, I searched his office.”
“The laptop?”
“Yes.”
“And the hidden camera?”
“Found that afterward.”
“What else?”
Sarah went silent.
“What else did you find?”
“A key.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does it look like?”
“Old. Brass. There’s a number stamped on it.”
“What number?”
“17.”
Something stirred in my memory.
A row of hooks.
Keys hanging from them.
Numbers painted above each hook.
I whispered:
“Was there red string tied around it?”
Sarah stopped.
“Yes.”
My knees weakened.
I remembered that key.
Or at least I remembered seeing it.
“Marcus?”
“I think Mom had numbered keys.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know.”
Before she could answer, someone in her hospital room spoke.
Then Sarah said:
“Detective wants to talk to you.”
A man came onto the phone.
“Mr. Reed?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Alvarez. I’m with the Seattle Police Department. Your sister gave consent for us to access the files she copied.”
“Did you see them?”
“We’re reviewing them.”
“Are they videos?”
“Some are.”
My stomach twisted.
“Of Chloe?”
“I can’t discuss details over the phone yet.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“Because one file contains your name.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“A folder labeled MARCUS REED.”
My mouth went dry.
“What’s inside?”
“We haven’t opened all of it.”
“Open it.”
“Mr. Reed—”
“Open it.”
He paused.
“There’s a video file dated October 14, 1998.”
I was twelve years old then.
The year my father supposedly left.
“What’s on it?”
“We only reviewed the first seconds before stopping for proper evidence handling.”
“And?”
“A boy who appears to be you is sitting in a room.”
My childhood.
Recorded.
“Is my mother there?”
“No.”
“Sarah?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
The detective hesitated.
“There’s a man off camera.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“What man?”
“We don’t know.”
“What does he say?”
Another hesitation.
“He asks you where your father went.”
Every thought in my mind stopped.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
My father, Thomas Reed, disappeared when I was twelve.
Mom told everyone he left us for another woman.
He never called.
Never wrote.
Never paid child support.
Sarah and I grew up hating him.
“What do I say?”
The detective’s voice became careful.
“You say, ‘Mom told me I’m not supposed to tell anyone what happened in the garage.’”
My hand went numb.
The phone almost slipped from my fingers.
“Play more.”
“We need to preserve procedure.”
“Detective, my entire life may be a lie.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
My voice cracked.
“My father vanished the same year that video was made.”
The detective went quiet.
Then:
“We’re aware.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your sister told us.”
“Told you what?”
“Your father was never officially reported missing.”
I froze.
“What?”
“According to records we’ve found so far, your mother told relatives he abandoned the family, but no missing-person report appears to have been filed.”
I had never considered that.
Not once.
We simply accepted her story.
“Where is Mom now?”
“We’re trying to locate her.”
“What about her house?”
“We’re preparing to search it.”
“I’m coming.”
“Mr. Reed—”
“I’m coming.”
“I strongly recommend you stay with your niece.”
I looked at Chloe sitting beside Denise.
Then she looked at me.
As if she knew exactly what I was thinking.
“I’m coming too,” she said.
“No.”
Her face fell.
“No, sweetheart. Absolutely not.”
“But I know the room.”
The detective heard her.
“Mr. Reed, keep the child away from that property.”
“I will.”
I arranged for Chloe to remain with Denise and two officers until Sarah could be medically released.
Chloe clung to me when I tried to leave.
“Don’t go downstairs.”
I hugged her tightly.
“I’m not going anywhere dangerous.”
That was another lie.
She pulled away and looked directly into my eyes.
“Grandma says people who remember have to go away.”
Every hair on my arms rose.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she say that to you?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Chloe looked frightened.
“David.”
“When?”
“At Grandma’s house.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“He said Mommy was starting to remember.”
My stomach dropped.
“And Grandma said?”
Chloe whispered:
“Then we have the same problem we had with her husband.”
I forgot how to breathe.
Her husband.
My father.
Thomas.
I drove toward my mother’s house with an officer following behind me.
The entire forty-minute trip, memories attacked me in flashes.
Dad arguing with Mom.
Dad shouting:
“They’re children, Evelyn!”
Mom throwing a glass.
Sarah crying upstairs.
Dad kneeling in front of me.
“Marcus, if something happens, take your sister and run.”
I nearly drove off the road.
I had forgotten that conversation.
No.
I had buried it.
When we reached my mother’s neighborhood, police vehicles were already everywhere.
Yellow tape stretched across the driveway.
Neighbors stood outside pretending not to stare.
My mother’s house looked exactly as it always had.
White siding.
Blue shutters.
Rose bushes along the walkway.
A wooden sign beside the porch:
FAMILY IS EVERYTHING.
I nearly laughed.
Detective Alvarez met me near the driveway.
He was tall, maybe early forties, with tired eyes.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I need answers.”
“You stay where I tell you.”
“Fine.”
He led me toward the garage.
The main garage door stood open.
My mother’s car was gone.
Against the back wall were shelves filled with holiday decorations, paint cans, and old boxes.
And behind them was a wooden door.
The same door Chloe described.
I had seen it hundreds of times.
But I remembered it being smaller.
Maybe because I had been smaller.
The lock had already been removed.
Detective Alvarez opened the door.
A staircase descended into darkness.
My legs shook.
The smell reached me.
Damp concrete.
Dust.
Something metallic.
And suddenly I was eight years old again.
“No.”
The word escaped my mouth.
Alvarez looked at me.
“You recognize it?”
I nodded.
“I think so.”
Investigators moved carefully below us.
Photographs.
Evidence markers.
Flashlights.
I remained at the top of the stairs.
Then someone called:
“Detective!”
Alvarez went down.
I followed despite his warning.
The basement was larger than I expected.
Much larger.
One main corridor.
Four small rooms.
Each with a heavy door.
No windows.
The walls had children’s drawings taped to them.
Some old.
Some recent.
Names had been written beneath several.
Emily.
Jordan.
Maya.
Lucas.
Chloe.
I reached toward Chloe’s drawing but stopped myself.
A purple house.
A stick figure inside.
Another stick figure outside.
And over the door she had drawn a giant black X.
I felt physically ill.
Then I saw another picture.
Yellowed paper.
Crayon faded with age.
Two children holding hands beneath a tree.
MARCUS + SARAH.
I had drawn it.
I knew before touching it.
A memory slammed into me.
Sarah and I sitting on the basement floor.
She was crying.
“I’m hungry.”
I tore my piece of bread in half.
Mom opened the door.
She saw me giving Sarah food.
Her face changed.
“Marcus, what did I tell you?”
“She’s hungry.”
“She lost dinner.”
“I’ll give her mine.”
“That’s not your choice.”
Then Mom took the bread away from both of us.
The memory disappeared as quickly as it came.
I staggered against the wall.
Alvarez grabbed my arm.
“You need to go upstairs.”
“No.”
“Mr. Reed—”
“No.”
Then another investigator called from the last room.
“We found something.”
Inside was an old metal desk.
Filing cabinets.
A VCR.
Stacks of tapes.
Dozens.
Maybe hundreds.
Every tape labeled with dates and initials.
Alvarez swore under his breath.
One investigator opened a drawer.
Inside were photographs.
Family photographs.
Children at parks.
Schools.
Birthday parties.
Some from decades ago.
Some recent.
Then he pulled out an envelope.
THOMAS REED.
My father.
“Open it.”
Alvarez looked at me.
“Please.”
He put on gloves and opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
My father stood beside a lake.
The date printed on the bottom:
OCT 16 1998.
Two days after the video of me.
My father looked terrified.
Behind him stood my mother.
And David.
Except David looked almost exactly the same age he did now.
Impossible.
I grabbed the edge of the desk.
“No.”
Alvarez stared at the picture.
“How old is David now?”
“Forty-two.”
“How old would he have been in 1998?”
“Fourteen.”
The person in that photograph was an adult.
Maybe thirty.
But the resemblance was undeniable.
Same eyes.
Same smile.
Same scar beside the eyebrow.
“Then that isn’t David,” Alvarez said.
I stared harder.
And suddenly I remembered a name.
A man my mother used to mention before my father disappeared.
Daniel.
My mother’s “old friend.”
Daniel Gray.
Danny.
Mr. Gray.
David’s outside name.
Nathan’s alias was Mr. Gray.
My blood turned cold.
“That’s their father.”
Alvarez looked at me.
“Who?”
“David and Nathan.”
I pointed at the photograph.
“That has to be Daniel Gray.”
The family connection had existed for decades.
Before David.
Before Chloe.
Before Sarah ever dated him.
Detective Alvarez immediately began issuing instructions.
Then an investigator opened the final filing cabinet.
Inside were folders arranged alphabetically.
He ran his finger across them.
Stopped.
Pulled one out.
REED, THOMAS.
My father’s file.
Inside were financial documents.
Photographs.
Letters.
And a single handwritten confession.
Not my father’s confession.
My mother’s handwriting.
I recognized it instantly.
Alvarez began reading silently.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He didn’t answer.
“What does it say?”
He looked at me.
“Your mother describes an incident in October 1998.”
My heart hammered.
“What incident?”
“It says your father discovered the basement.”
I closed my eyes.
I knew what came next before he said it.
“He threatened to go to police.”
“And?”
Alvarez continued reading.
“It says Daniel handled it.”
The room went silent.
“What does ‘handled it’ mean?”
Before Alvarez could answer, another officer shouted from the corridor.
“Detective! You need to see this!”
We rushed out.
At the far end of the basement was a concrete wall.
One investigator had moved an old shelving unit.
Behind it was another door.
Steel.
No handle.
Keypad entry.
I remembered Chloe:
The room where we wait.
An investigator found an electrical panel and bypassed the lock.
The steel door clicked.
Nobody moved for a second.
Then Alvarez pulled it open.
Cold air poured out.
Behind the door was another staircase.
Going even deeper.
“What the hell?” one officer whispered.
My mother’s house was built on property that had once contained an old storm shelter.
Apparently someone had expanded it.
Alvarez ordered me upstairs.
This time I listened.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Twenty.
Police activity intensified.
More vehicles arrived.
Crime scene technicians.
Detectives.
Then Alvarez came upstairs.
His face was pale.
“What did you find?”
He stared at me for several seconds.
“Another room.”
“What’s inside?”
“Personal belongings.”
“What kind?”
“Children’s clothes. Toys. Identification documents.”
My stomach turned.
“And?”
He hesitated.
“We found a wall covered with photographs.”
“Of the children?”
“Yes.”
“Chloe?”
“Yes.”
“Sarah?”
“Yes.”
“Me?”
Alvarez swallowed.
“Yes.”
I shut my eyes.
“There’s something else.”
I opened them.
“What?”
“At the center of the wall is a photograph of your father.”
My heart stopped.
“From 1998?”
“No.”
I stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
“The photograph has a digital timestamp.”
I suddenly couldn’t breathe.
“What date?”
Alvarez looked directly at me.
“Six months ago.”
The world disappeared beneath my feet.
“No.”
My father would be seventy-four.
If alive.
The man who abandoned us.
The man I hated for thirty years.
The man my mother said walked away without looking back.
Alvarez held out an evidence photograph.
An older man sat in a chair.
Gray hair.
Thin face.
Deep lines around his mouth.
But I knew those eyes.
I had seen them every morning in my own mirror.
Thomas Reed.
My father.
Alive.
And hanging behind him was a handwritten sign.
I zoomed in.
Four words.
MARCUS, SHE LIED TO YOU.
My knees nearly collapsed.
Then Alvarez’s radio crackled.
A patrol officer was shouting.
“Possible suspect vehicle located!”
Alvarez grabbed the radio.
“Location?”
The answer came.
A gas station twelve miles north.
My mother’s car.
Abandoned.
Security footage showed an elderly woman getting into another vehicle.
“What vehicle?”
Alvarez asked.
The officer responded:
“Black SUV.”
My blood froze.
David’s SUV had been left outside my house.
“Driver identification?”
“Working on it.”
Then another transmission interrupted.
“Detective, hospital unit reporting emergency.”
My stomach dropped.
“What emergency?”
“Sarah Reed is missing.”
I stared at Alvarez.
“What?”
“Repeat?”
“Sarah left her room approximately seven minutes ago. Security footage shows her entering an elevator with an unidentified woman.”
“No.”
I grabbed my phone and called Sarah.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
Then a text arrived.
From Sarah.
Three words.
DON’T FOLLOW ME.
Another message appeared immediately.
I KNOW WHERE DAD IS.
I called again.
Nothing.
Then the third message arrived.
This one made my heart stop.
MOM DIDN’T TAKE ME.
I WENT WITH HER.
I stared at the screen.
Sarah had willingly left the hospital with our mother.
After everything we had discovered.
After Nathan attacked her.
After David hunted Chloe.
After the basement.
“Why?” I whispered.
Then the final message arrived.
BECAUSE DAVID ISN’T THE ONE WE SHOULD BE AFRAID OF.
I looked at Alvarez.
“What does that mean?”
Before either of us could answer, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Sarah?”
Silence.
Then breathing.
An elderly man’s voice spoke.
“Marcus?”
I forgot how to stand.
I knew that voice.
Not from memory.
From somewhere deeper.
Somewhere childhood never completely erased.
“Dad?”
A sob came through the phone.
“Son.”
My eyes filled instantly.
“Where are you?”
“I don’t have much time.”
“Dad, Mom told us you abandoned us.”
“I know.”
“Where have you been?”
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
He started crying.
“I tried to come back for you.”
My entire body shook.
“What happened?”
“Your mother found me first.”
“Where are you now?”
“I can’t say.”
“Sarah says she knows.”
Silence.
“Dad?”
His breathing changed.
“Sarah contacted you?”
“Yes.”
“Marcus.”
His voice became terrified.
“Listen carefully.”
“I’m listening.”
“Do not trust your sister.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“She remembered more than you did.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sarah wasn’t just another child in that basement.”
I gripped the phone.
“What was she?”
My father whispered:
“She was the reason your mother built the second room.”
Then a loud noise erupted on his end.
A door opening.
My father gasped.
“No.”
“Dad?”
“Marcus, protect Chloe.”
“Dad!”
“Don’t let Sarah take her back.”
Someone grabbed the phone.
I heard struggling.
Then my father screamed:
“THE RED BOOK ISN’T A LIST OF VICTIMS!”
The connection went dead.
I stood frozen.
Alvarez stared at me.
“What did he say?”
I could barely force out the words.
“He said the children in the red book…”
My mouth went dry.
“…weren’t the victims.”
And suddenly I realized the question nobody had asked.
If those twenty-three children weren’t victims…
then what were they?……………
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 4…
