The basement seemed to shrink around us.
Dad stood behind me, staring at the sentence Michael had written as though he could force the ink to explain itself.
Your mother was not the betrayer.
Mom pressed one hand against the edge of the table.
"I don't understand."
Dad picked up the envelope.
"Neither do I."
I turned the paper over.
Nothing was written on the back.
"When did he write this?"
Dad looked at the handwriting.
"I don't know."
"You kept his things for years."
"Yes."
"And this was hidden in here."
"Yes."
"With my name on it."
Dad nodded.
Emma reached for the paper.
She read it silently.
Then she looked at Dad.
"Why would Michael write to Chloe?"
Dad shook his head.
"He never knew her."
"Maybe he did."
Dad stared at her.
"She was twelve when all this happened."
"But he could have known about her."
Mom's expression changed.
"Daniel knew about the girls."
I looked at her.
"How?"
"Because he knew everything about me."
Dad's eyes narrowed.
"That still doesn't explain Michael."
I returned to the box.
There were several bank statements, two old newspaper clippings, and a small black notebook.
I opened it.
Most of the pages were filled with numbers.
Dates.
Account references.
Initials.
Then I found one page with three names.
Daniel.
Victor.
Mom.
Beside Mom's name was a date.
The date was the same day the eight thousand dollars had entered her account.
I looked at Dad.
"She was being used."
He nodded slowly.
"Looks that way."
Mom sat down.
"I never knew."
"I believe you," I said.
She looked at me sharply.
I wasn't sure why saying it felt so difficult.
Maybe because twelve years earlier, believing her would have seemed impossible.
Now I had learned that truth wasn't always a clean line between innocent and guilty.
People could do terrible things and still be innocent of other terrible things.
Mom had betrayed Dad.
She had lied.
She had left.
She had blamed me.
But she had not necessarily stolen that money.
And someone had clearly wanted the family to believe she had.
Emma picked up the notebook.
"There's a phone number here."
Dad leaned over.
"That's Victor's old office."
"Old?"
"He closed the company years ago."
"Where is he now?"
Dad hesitated.
"I don't know."
I turned another page.
There was a newer number.
Written in darker ink.
Dad stared at it.
"I know that number."
"Whose?"
"Daniel's."
Mom went pale.
"He's still using it?"
"Apparently."
I looked at the phone.
"Call him."
Dad shook his head.
"Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because if he knows we have this, he'll know what we've found."
Emma looked at him.
"He already knows."
She was right.
The message had arrived before we even left the salon.
Someone had been watching.
I took a photograph of the notebook with my phone.
Then another of the letter.
"We need copies."
Dad nodded.
"I'll scan everything."
Mom looked at the boxes.
"What about Michael?"
Dad was silent.
I turned toward him.
"You said his body was never found."
"Correct."
"Then why did you accept that he was dead?"
He lowered his head.
"Because I had no reason not to."
"That's not true."
He looked at me.
"You had the letters."
"What letters?"
"From Michael."
Dad froze.
Emma stepped closer.
"What letters?"
Mom looked confused.
Dad stared at the cabinet.
"I never received letters from him."
I looked at the box.
"There are letters here."
Dad opened the bottom drawer.
Three envelopes were tucked beneath an old photograph.
All were addressed to him.
The dates were years after Michael's disappearance.
He opened the first.
The paper inside was brief.
Michael said he was alive.
He said he had found evidence that someone inside the company had been moving money through employee accounts.
He said he could not trust anyone.
He told Dad not to contact him.
The second letter was dated two months later.
The third was dated nearly a year after that.
Dad sat heavily in the chair.
"Why didn't I remember these?"
"Because you never knew they were here," Emma said.
He looked at her.
"I must have found them after the funeral."
Mom's eyes narrowed.
"No."
Dad looked up.
"What?"
"You didn't find them after the funeral."
She pointed at the envelope.
"Look at the postmark."
I leaned closer.
The postmark was from a town in the same state where Daniel had worked.
The date was three years after Michael supposedly died.
Dad stared at it.
"Someone sent these."
"Someone who wanted you to believe Michael was dead," Mom said.
I looked at the notebook.
"Or someone who wanted to keep you from finding him."
A sound came from upstairs.
Everyone froze.
The house settled with a soft creak.
Dad stood.
"Stay here."
He climbed the stairs.
We waited.
A door opened.
Then another.
Silence.
He came back down holding an envelope.
"It was on the front porch."
My name was written across it.
Again.
I took it.
This time, the handwriting was not Michael's.
It was Daniel's.
Inside was a single photograph.
It showed the old parking lot.
The same silver sedan.
The same afternoon.
But the photograph had been taken from a different angle.
I could see myself.
A twelve-year-old girl standing beside the delivery van.
Watching.
I felt sick.
"Someone was there."
Dad stared at the photograph.
"Yes."
Mom covered her mouth.
I turned it over.
There were words written on the back.
You saw only what I wanted you to see.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: The Photograph Proved Someone Had Been Watching Me That Afternoon, and the Truth Behind the Parking Lot Was Worse Than I Imagined
The Thing I Saw Behind the Grocery Store Stayed With Me Long After Everyone Else Pretended Nothing Had Happened
Part 9 of 12
