Chapter 7: The Letter
I locked every door before we even reached the kitchen.
Front door.
Back door.
Garage.
Then I pulled the curtains shut.
Joel stood beside the dining table, watching me.
“Mom.””
“Stay here.””
“Mom.””
“Joel, please.””
My voice cracked.
He stopped.
I hated that.
I hated the fear on his face.
I walked over and hugged him.
He wrapped both arms around my waist.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“For what?””
“For walking home.””
I closed my eyes.
“No.””
“But if I didn't—”
“No.””
I pulled back and held his face between my hands.
“You did nothing wrong.””
“But I saw him.””
“You did the right thing by telling me.””
He nodded.
Then his eyes moved toward the envelope sitting on the counter.
“What does it say?””
“I don't know.””
“You're going to open it?””
“Yes.””
“When?””
I looked at the clock.
3:48.
“I don't know.””
Joel frowned.
“You always say that when you're scared.””
I almost smiled.
“You're eleven. You're not supposed to notice things like that.””
“I notice everything.””
I kissed his forehead.
“Go upstairs.””
“No.””
“Joel.””
“I want to know.””
I stared at him.
There was something different in his expression.
Not curiosity.
Determination.
I picked up the envelope.
“Fine. But you're staying beside me.””
I opened it carefully.
Inside was a single sheet of yellowed paper.
The handwriting was neat.
Almost painfully neat.
My name appeared at the top.
*Mara,*
*If you're reading this, then something happened to Daniel.*
I stopped.
Joel leaned closer.
I continued.
*You probably don't remember him. That's intentional.*
My pulse quickened.
*Your father asked me to help him protect you. He said there were people who wanted what belonged to you. He believed they would use Daniel to get to you.*
I looked at Joel.
“Your grandfather?””
He nodded.
I kept reading.
*Daniel discovered the truth before your father could move you somewhere safe. He promised me he would never tell you. But he also promised that if anything happened to him, I would make sure you learned everything when you were old enough.*
My hands trembled.
There was more.
*The house you live in was never supposed to be yours. It was transferred into your father's name under a trust. When he died, the trust was supposed to pass to you. Someone changed the documents.*
I stopped reading.
Joel looked confused.
“Changed what documents?””
“I don't know.””
The final paragraph was shorter.
*The person who changed them is still alive. And he knows about your son.*
A noise came from upstairs.
We both froze.
Three soft footsteps.
Then silence.
Joel grabbed my hand.
“Mom.””
“Stay behind me.””
We moved toward the staircase.
Another sound.
A floorboard creaked.
“Hello?””
Nothing.
I reached the top.
Joel stayed two steps behind.
His bedroom door was open.
The window was closed.
The curtains moved slightly.
I checked the closet.
Empty.
Under the bed.
Nothing.
Then Joel whispered.
“Mom.””
He was pointing toward his desk.
His school notebook was open.
Across the page, someone had written in black marker:
*YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED.*
My stomach turned.
I grabbed the notebook.
“How did someone get inside?””
Joel's face went white.
“The window.””
“It was locked.””
“I locked it this morning.””
I looked around.
Then I saw the floor.
Tiny pieces of dirt.
Leading from the window.
To the desk.
To the hallway.
Someone had been here.
While we were downstairs.
I immediately called the police.
A patrol officer arrived fifteen minutes later.
He searched the house, checked the windows, and photographed the writing.
His name was Officer Grant.
He was calm, professional, almost annoyingly calm.
“Any cameras?”” he asked.
I pointed toward the front porch.
“My doorbell camera.””
“Let's pull it up.””
He connected to the app.
We watched the footage.
Nothing.
No one at the front door.
No one near the windows.
No red truck.
Officer Grant frowned.
“Do you have cameras inside?””
“No.””
He looked at the notebook.
“Then whoever did this knew exactly where your blind spots were.””
Joel spoke from the couch.
“I know who it is.””
Officer Grant turned.
“Who?””
“The man in the red truck.””
“What do you know about him?””
“He comes every Tuesday.””
“Do you know his name?””
Joel shook his head.
“But he knows Mom.””
Officer Grant looked at me.
“I think you should consider staying somewhere else tonight.””
I nodded.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?””
Nothing.
Then a man's voice.
“You should have burned the letter.””
I couldn't breathe.
“Who is this?””
“You don't remember me.””
“Who are you?””
A quiet laugh.
“Ask your mother.””
The call ended.
Officer Grant stood immediately.
“Who was that?””
I looked at Joel.
Then at the letter.
“My mother died eight years ago.””
Officer Grant's expression hardened.
“Then whoever called you wants you to believe she knew something.””
I looked down at the yellowed paper.
At the handwriting.
And suddenly I recognized it.
Not the words.
The shape.
The little curl beneath the letter M.
The way the final letters leaned left.
I had seen that handwriting before.
On birthday cards.
On Christmas envelopes.
On notes tucked into my lunchbox when I was a child.
I whispered, “That's my mother's handwriting.””
Officer Grant stared at me.
“Are you sure?””
“Yes.””
Joel stepped closer.
“Mom…”
I turned.
He was holding something.
A second photograph.
He had found it beneath the couch.
May you like
And this one showed my mother standing beside the man from the red truck.
But the date written on the back was only three weeks ago.
