Chapter 3 - The Woman in the Photograph
Aubrey waited until Mitchell went downstairs.
Then she knelt beside the locked door.
“Dylan?”
“I’m here.”
His voice was muffled.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Is there a window?”
“A little one. Too high.”
“Do you have water?”
“A bottle.”
Aubrey pressed her forehead against the door.
“I’ll get you out.”
Dylan sniffed.
“You always say that.”
The words almost broke her.
She had said the same thing at Ronald’s house.
I’ll fix it.
I’ll take it.
I’ll protect you.
Aubrey had spent years making promises an eleven-year-old should never have needed to make.
“I mean it.”
“Okay.”
She searched the hallway.
No key.
Mitchell had taken it.
Aubrey returned to their bedroom.
The trust paper was gone from the dresser.
Mitchell had removed it.
But she remembered the number.
Four million six hundred forty thousand two hundred eighteen.
She whispered it until she knew she would not forget.
Then she began searching.
Not for the notebook.
For anything.
The dresser drawers were almost empty.
The closet held old clothes.
Behind a stack of blankets she found a cardboard box.
Inside were photographs.
Mitchell younger.
Her mother Claire laughing beside a lake.
Baby Aubrey in Claire’s arms.
Dylan as an infant.
For several minutes, Aubrey forgot she was afraid.
She touched Claire’s face.
“Mom.”
There were photographs from before Ronald.
Before the fighting.
Before hospitals and lawyers and custody hearings.
In one picture, Mitchell had his arm around Claire.
They looked happy.
Aubrey hated the photograph.
She also loved it.
At the bottom of the box lay an envelope.
CLAIRE.
Aubrey opened it.
Empty.
Except for one torn corner of blue paper.
She held it closer.
Handwriting.
Claire’s.
Aubrey knew the slanted letters from old birthday cards.
Only six words remained:
…if Mitchell asks about the notebook…
The rest had been torn away.
Aubrey’s heart hammered.
The blue notebook was real.
She searched the box again.
Nothing.
Then she heard footsteps.
She shoved the paper into her sleeve.
Mitchell entered.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for socks.”
He glanced toward the open closet.
“Did you find anything else?”
“No.”
His eyes stayed on her.
Aubrey forced herself not to touch her sleeve.
Mitchell walked toward the box.
He saw the photographs.
Something complicated crossed his face.
Not guilt.
Maybe grief.
He picked up the picture of Claire.
“She didn’t understand what she had.”
Aubrey stared.
“What?”
“Your mother thought money made people dangerous.”
“Maybe she was right.”
Mitchell looked at her.
For one second, Aubrey thought he might strike her.
Instead he smiled.
“You sound like her.”
He put the photograph back.
“That isn’t always a compliment.”
Aubrey waited until he left.
Then she unfolded the torn paper.
Mitchell asks about the notebook.
Claire had expected this.
Which meant the notebook was not simply about old money.
It was about him.
That afternoon, Mitchell brought Dylan out.
Aubrey almost ran to him.
Dylan’s face was pale.
He clung to her.
Mitchell stood nearby.
“You have one hour together.”
Aubrey glared at him.
“Why?”
“Because I’m being reasonable.”
Dylan whispered, “Don’t make him mad.”
Mitchell heard.
He smiled.
“Smart boy.”
Aubrey wanted to scream.
Instead she wrapped an arm around Dylan.
“What did Dad ask you?”
Dylan glanced at Mitchell.
“Nothing.”
Later, when they were briefly alone in the bathroom, Dylan whispered:
“He asked where Mom hid the bird.”
Aubrey frowned.
“What bird?”
“I don’t know.”
“He said blue bird?”
Dylan nodded.
A memory struck her.
Their mother’s old sewing cabinet.
Claire had painted a tiny blue bird inside one drawer.
Aubrey remembered sitting beside her while she repaired curtains.
“The drawer nobody notices,” Claire used to say.
Aubrey had thought it was a game.
Her pulse quickened.
The sewing cabinet was not here.
It had been at Ronald’s house.
In the basement.
Unless Ronald had thrown it away.
That night Mitchell locked Dylan behind the side door again.
Aubrey lay awake.
She had information now.
And Mitchell did not know she had it.
For the first time since entering his house, that gave her a tiny piece of power.
Then headlights swept across the bedroom ceiling.
A car pulled into the driveway.
Aubrey went to the window.
A woman got out.
Tall.
Dark coat.
Carrying a folder.
Mitchell opened the front door.
The woman looked up toward Aubrey’s window.
Their eyes almost met.
Aubrey recognized her.
Rachel Monroe.
May you like
Her mother’s younger sister.
The aunt Ronald had spent two years telling them never wanted to see them again.
