Nobody moved after I read the message.
The photograph showed my front door from the inside. Not through a window. Not from the porch. Someone had stood inside my house, close enough to touch the door, and taken the picture.
Eric reached for my phone.
“Give me that.”
I handed it over.
He studied the image, then looked slowly around the room.
The police officer noticed his expression.
“What?”
Eric held up the phone.
The officer's face tightened.
“Everybody stays where they are.”
He motioned toward the other officer.
“Check the house.”
The officer moved toward the hallway with one hand near his weapon. Another officer went toward the stairs.
Vanessa pulled the children closer.
I could hear the refrigerator humming.
Then a floorboard creaked upstairs.
Every head turned.
“Brooks?” Eric called.
No answer.
He started toward the stairs.
The officer caught his arm.
“Let us check.”
They went up.
Seconds passed.
Then another sound came from above.
A door opening.
A child cried out.
Eric broke away.
He ran upstairs.
I followed.
We found Brooks standing outside the guest bedroom, pale and trembling.
“What happened?” Eric asked.
Brooks pointed inside.
“I heard somebody.”
The officer entered first.
The room was empty.
The window was locked.
The closet was open.
Nothing appeared disturbed.
Then the officer crouched beside the bed.
He reached underneath and pulled out a small black case.
Eric stared.
“That wasn't there before.”
The officer opened it.
Inside was a phone.
Not a modern smartphone.
An inexpensive prepaid phone with one button on the side.
The screen was lit.
One message waited.
LOOK IN THE GARAGE.
Eric looked at me.
I felt my stomach drop.
The garage key found near the fence was still in the evidence bag.
“No,” I said.
Eric didn't answer.
The officers went downstairs first.
We followed.
Nobody spoke until we reached the garage.
The door was closed.
The officer unlocked it with the key taken from the evidence bag.
The overhead light flickered.
My garage looked exactly as it always had.
Shelves.
Gardening tools.
Old boxes.
Eric's bicycle.
A stack of holiday decorations.
Then he noticed the cabinet against the far wall.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“That wasn't there last week.”
He walked toward it.
I stared.
The cabinet had always been there.
But he was right about something else.
It had been moved.
There was a clean rectangular patch on the dusty floor where something had recently stood.
The officer opened the cabinet.
Nothing.
He pulled it away from the wall.
Behind it was a narrow door.
I had never seen it.
Eric stared at me.
“You didn't know?”
“No.”
The officer tried the handle.
Locked.
He looked at the key.
It fit.
The door opened.
A stale smell came out.
Not rot.
Something more like old paper, dust, and damp wood.
Behind it was a narrow storage room.
Boxes filled the shelves.
Some were labeled with dates.
Others had names.
Eric picked up the nearest box.
His face changed.
“Mom.”
“What?”
The label read:
BROOKS HALE.
He opened it.
Inside were school photographs.
Medical records.
Copies of report cards.
Pictures of him at baseball.
The same kind of pictures Vanessa had shown us.
Eric dropped the box.
“What the hell?”
The officer began opening other boxes.
Emily.
Noah.
Vanessa.
Eric.
Me.
Every one of us had a box.
My hands went cold.
“Why would anyone keep these?”
The officer didn't answer.
He was staring at the last shelf.
There was one box without a name.
Only a date.
The date was two months earlier.
Eric opened it.
Inside were photographs of our family.
But the newest one had been taken that afternoon.
It showed the three children arriving at my house.
The photographer had been close.
Very close.
Eric's face drained of color.
“He was here.”
The officer looked at the photograph.
“When?”
“Today.”
A second officer hurried in.
“We have movement outside.”
Everyone froze.
“Where?”
“Back fence.”
The officers moved toward the rear entrance.
Eric took Vanessa and the children away from the windows.
A vehicle accelerated down the street.
Then came silence.
The officers returned.
“No one.”
Eric slammed his hand against the wall.
“We're chasing shadows.”
The officer looked at him.
“Not anymore.”
He held up one of the photographs.
“We have enough evidence to start tracing whoever maintained this room.”
“Can you find out?”
“We'll try.”
“Try isn't good enough.”
The officer's expression hardened.
“Mr. Hale, your family has been watched for months. Whoever did this knew your routines, your relatives, your children's schools, and apparently had access to this house. We need to assume they planned for us to discover some of this.”
Vanessa looked toward the boxes.
“Then it's a trap.”
“Maybe.”
Eric stared at her.
“Who knew about this room?”
She shook her head.
“I didn't.”
“Michael?”
“I don't know.”
“Ray?”
“I don't know.”
Eric looked at me.
“Mom?”
“I swear I've never seen it.”
The officer interrupted.
“There's something else.”
He held up a folder.
Inside was a bank statement.
The account belonged to Vanessa.
Eric looked at the date.
“This is from before we met.”
Vanessa stepped closer.
“What?”
The officer showed her.
Her name was on the account.
But the transactions were impossible.
Large deposits.
Withdrawals.
Transfers to an account overseas.
Eric looked at his wife.
“You had another account.”
“I didn't.”
“It's in your name.”
“I never opened it.”
The officer turned the page.
“There are several accounts.”
Vanessa's hands began shaking.
Then she saw one particular transaction.
She whispered a name.
“Michael.”
Eric looked at her.
“What?”
“That account was opened using my old address.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means whoever did this knew things about me before I ever met you.”
The officer studied the documents.
“Or someone who knew your family.”
Vanessa looked toward me.
I understood what she was thinking.
Ray.
But before anyone could say his name, the prepaid phone in the evidence bag began ringing.
Everyone stopped.
The officer answered on speaker.
No one spoke.
Then a man's voice said:
“You found the room.”
Eric stepped forward.
“Who are you?”
“You're asking the wrong question.”
“Where are my children supposed to be tonight?”
A pause.
“Safe.”
Eric laughed bitterly.
“They're terrified.”
“They should be.”
Vanessa whispered, “Why?”
The voice replied:
“Because fear is the only thing keeping them alive.”
The line went dead.
Eric stared at the phone.
Then it rang again.
This time, the caller spoke only one sentence.
“Ask Ray what happened to Sarah.”
The call ended.
Vanessa went completely still.
Eric turned toward her.
“Who is Sarah?”
Vanessa didn't answer.
The officer asked again.
“Ma'am?”
Vanessa's lips trembled.
“My sister.”
I looked at her.
“You told us you only had one brother.”
“I know.”
Eric stepped closer.
“You have a sister too?”
“She died.”
“How?”
Vanessa closed her eyes.
“That's the question I've spent fifteen years trying not to answer.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: Vanessa Finally Named the Woman Everyone Had Been Avoiding, and Her Death Connected Ray to the Secret Buried Beneath Our House
The Children Arrived With More Than Weekend Bags, and the One Envelope I Refused to Open Made My Son Race Home
Part 5 of 8
