Chapter 2 - The Letter Beneath the Floorboards
Mark woke up at five in the morning.
The house was cold.
The smell of coffee was missing.
Usually, Vanessa had the pot brewing by now.
He walked down the hall in his socks.
Toby’s room door was wide open.
The bed was empty.
Mark’s heart gave a sudden, painful thud.
“Toby?” he called out.
No answer.
He ran downstairs into the kitchen.
The front door was unlocked.
It was resting open an inch.
Cold morning air whistled through the gap.
“Vanessa!” Mark yelled, turning toward the stairs.
Vanessa came out of the master bathroom.
She was wearing her silk robe.
Her hair was brushed.
She looked calm, but her eyes were tight.
“What’s wrong, Mark?”
“Toby’s gone!” Mark shouted.
“The front door is wide open!”
Vanessa covered her mouth with both hands.
“Oh my God!”
“Did he run away again?”
Mark grabbed his boots.
“What do you mean again? He’s never run away!”
Vanessa walked down the stairs quickly.
“Mark... I didn't want to tell you last night.”
“He tried to pack a bag yesterday afternoon.”
“I caught him near the porch.”
“He’s hurt, Mark.”
“He needs professional help.”
Mark stopped tying his lace.
He looked up at her.
“Why didn't you tell me yesterday?”
Vanessa bit her lip.
“You were so tired.”
“I didn't want to break your heart.”
Mark stood up.
Doubt surged through him like ice water.
Something didn't feel right.
He looked at the kitchen table.
Toby’s breakfast plate from yesterday was still there.
It was untouched.
Half a cold pancake sat in grey syrup.
Mark remembered Toby’s face from last night.
‘She took them, Dad.’
‘She stepped on them.’
Mark ran out the front door into the chilly rain.
“Toby!” he screamed into the foggy morning.
“Toby!”
The street was completely deserted.
Then he saw footprints in the wet mud near the driveway.
Small footprints.
Next to them were large, heavy boot prints.
Work boots.
Mark froze.
He knew those boot prints.
He had seen them on job sites for fifteen years.
“Sam,” Mark muttered under his breath.
Anger exploded in his chest.
His brother had taken his son.
Mark ran back inside the house.
He grabbed his truck keys off the counter.
Vanessa grabbed his arm.
“Where are you going?”
“Sam took him,” Mark said, his voice shaking with rage.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Vanessa’s eyes flashed with something strange.
Was it fear? Or excitement?
“I’m coming with you,” she said quickly.
“No,” Mark said.
“Stay here in case he comes back.”
“Mark, don't go alone!” she yelled as he ran out.
“He’s dangerous!”
“You know what he did to your father’s estate!”
Mark slammed his truck door shut.
He fired up the engine.
He sped down the quiet suburban street.
Ten minutes later, Mark pulled up to Sam’s workshop.
It was an old wooden barn on the edge of town.
Sawdust smelled rich in the damp air.
Smoke rose from the small tin chimney.
Mark threw his truck door open.
He marched straight toward the heavy wooden double doors.
He kicked the door open.
“Sam!” Mark roared.
“Give me my son!”
Inside, the workshop was warm.
A potbelly stove crackled in the corner.
Toby was sitting on a wooden stool by the fire.
He was wearing a oversized flannel shirt.
He was holding a warm cup of cocoa with both hands.
Sam was standing near a workbench.
He was holding a pair of magnifying glasses and a fine screwdriver.
On the table in front of him lay the broken silver eyeglasses.
They were taped together temporarily.
Sam looked up slowly.
He didn't jump.
He didn't move to hide anything.
“Sit down, Mark,” Sam said calmly.
Mark rushed forward.
He snatched Toby off the stool.
Toby gasped, spilling a little cocoa on his sleeve.
“Dad!” Toby cried out.
“Don't hurt Uncle Sam!”
Mark held Toby behind his back.
He pointed a finger at Sam’s face.
“You kidnapped my child!”
“I am calling the sheriff right now!”
“He walked to my house at four in the morning, Mark,” Sam said.
His voice was dead level.
“He was shivering on my porch.”
“He didn't have shoes on.”
Mark looked down at Toby’s feet.
Toby was wearing Sam’s thick wool socks.
His small sneakers were sitting by the stove, wet and muddy.
Mark felt a cold knot form in his stomach.
“Why would he walk to your house?” Mark asked.
“He doesn't even know where you live!”
“He knows,” Toby said softly from behind Mark.
“Mommy took me here before she died.”
“She told me if anything ever happened... to find Uncle Sam.”
Mark turned around.
“What?”
“Your mother was sick, Toby.”
“She wasn't thinking straight.”
“No, Mark,” Sam interrupted.
“She was thinking perfectly straight.”
Sam turned on the bright workbench lamp.
He picked up a small metal tool.
“Look at this,” Sam said.
Mark didn't move.
“Look at it, Mark!” Sam shouted, his voice finally breaking.
“Look at what your wife did to your son’s face!”
Mark stepped closer to the workbench.
He looked down at the silver frames.
The left arm was bent out of shape.
Scratched deep into the silver coating were tiny letters.
They were jagged.
They were carved with a safety pin or a nail.
Mark leaned in.
His vision went blurry.
S-H-E--I-S--H-U-R-T-I-N-G--M-E.
Mark stopped breathing.
The room seemed to spin around him.
“Toby...” Mark whispered.
“Who wrote this?”
Toby looked at the floor.
“I did,” Toby whispered.
“When she locked me in the laundry room last week.”
“She said if I told you... she would throw away Mommy’s pictures.”
Mark fell back a step.
His back hit a wooden support beam.
“No...” Mark said.
“No, Vanessa loves him.”
“She cooks for him.”
“She left her job to take care of him!”
Sam laughed.
It was a harsh, bitter sound.
“She didn't leave her job, Mark.”
“She was fired.”
“For forging signature checks at her last accounting firm.”
Mark shook his head wildly.
“You’re lying.”
“You’re just trying to get back at me because Dad left me the house!”
Sam reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a manila envelope.
He threw it onto the workbench.
It slid across the wood and hit Mark’s hand.
“Open it,” Sam said.
Mark hesitated.
His hands were shaking violently.
He pulled out a stack of paper copies.
Bank statements.
Property deeds.
Medical reports.
Mark scanned the first page.
It was a bank transfer statement from his personal account.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Transferred three weeks ago.
To an offshore account under the name ‘V. Miller.’
Vanessa’s maiden name.
Mark looked at the second page.
A forge on his signature.
It was a loan application against his family house.
The house his father built with his own hands.
The house he promised to pass down to Toby.
Mark dropped the papers.
They scattered across the sawdust floor.
“How did you get these?” Mark whispered.
“The nurse at the hospital yesterday,” Sam said.
“She’s my neighbor’s daughter.”
“She knew something was wrong when Vanessa refused treatment.”
“She ran the serial number on the frames through the insurance registry.”
“The frames were insured by your late wife six months before she passed.”
“Along with a safety deposit box key.”
Mark looked up.
“A key?”
Sam pointed to the envelope.
At the bottom was a small brass key.
Number 402.
“Sarah left that key for you, Mark,” Sam said softly.
“She knew Vanessa was changing.”
“She knew Vanessa was manipulating you while Sarah was in hospice.”
“You were so blinded by grief... you couldn't see it.”
Mark felt like he had been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer.
He looked down at Toby.
Toby was watching him with huge, frightened eyes.
“Dad?” Toby asked softly.
“Are you mad at me?”
Mark dropped to his knees in the sawdust.
He pulled Toby into his arms.
He held the little boy so tightly he could feel his tiny heart beating fast.
“No, baby,” Mark sobbed into Toby’s shoulder.
“No, I’m not mad at you.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’m so, so sorry.”
Toby wrapped his small arms around Mark’s neck.
“It’s okay, Dad.”
“Uncle Sam fixed my glasses.”
Mark squeezed his eyes shut.
Tears streamed down his grease-stained cheeks.
He looked up at Sam.
Sam was watching them, his eyes wet.
“She’s selling the house, Mark,” Sam said quietly.
“The closing is scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
“She forged your power of attorney.”
“If you don't stop her today, you and Toby will have nowhere to go.”
Mark stood up slowly.
His grief turned into something ice-cold.
Something heavy.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“Where is the safety deposit box?” Mark asked.
“First National Bank on Main Street,” Sam answered.
“I’ll take Toby,” Sam offered gently.
“Keep him safe here.”
Mark looked at his son.
“No,” Mark said firmly.
“Toby comes with me.”
“I am never leaving him again.”
Mark walked out to his truck with Toby.
He buckled Toby securely into the front seat.
He drove straight to the bank on Main Street.
The rain had turned into a heavy downpour.
Mark walked up to the teller window.
He handed her the brass key and his ID.
Five minutes later, the teller brought out a long metal box.
She left Mark and Toby alone in the small private room.
Mark opened the metal lid.
Inside was a single blue envelope.
Written on the front in delicate handwriting was Mark’s name.
Mark opened the envelope with trembling fingers.
Inside was a handwritten letter from his late wife, Sarah.
And a USB drive.
Mark unfolded the letter.
'My dearest Mark,' it read.
'If you are reading this, I am gone.'
'And you have finally opened your eyes.'
'I know you are hurting.'
'But you need to protect our son.'
'Vanessa is not who she says she is.'
'I found the receipts in her desk.'
'She was paying off my doctors to keep me isolated.'
'She wanted you alone.'
'She wanted the house.'
'The USB drive contains the voice recordings from my bedroom.'
'Show them to the police.'
'Please, Mark... protect our boy.'
Mark held the paper against his forehead.
He cried silently.
Toby reached out and touched Mark’s arm.
“Mommy left that for us?” Toby asked.
“Yes, baby,” Mark whispered.
“Mommy is still taking care of us.”
Mark took the USB drive and put it in his pocket.
He grabbed Toby’s hand.
“Let's go home,” Mark said.
They drove back to the house.
The driveway was empty.
Vanessa’s car was gone.
Mark unlocked the front door.
The house was completely dark.
The furniture had been covered in plastic sheets.
Cardboard moving boxes were stacked high in the living room.
Vanessa had already started packing his life away.
Mark walked into the kitchen.
Sitting on the counter was a single piece of paper.
It was an eviction notice.
Dated for the end of the week.
Signed by a corporate buyer.
Footsteps sounded on the back porch outside.
The back door unlocked.
Vanessa walked into the kitchen carrying a box of packing tape.
She froze when she saw Mark and Toby.
Her eyes darted from Mark’s cold face down to the blue envelope in his hand.
She smiled, but her teeth were clenched.
“Mark!” she said smoothly.
“Where have you been?”
“I was so worried about you!”
“I called the police when I couldn't find you!”
Mark didn't move.
He stood right in front of her.
He reached into his pocket.
He pulled out the USB drive.
He held it up between them.
Vanessa’s smile completely vanished.
Her face drained of all color.
“Where did you get that?” she whispered.
“Sarah left it for me,” Mark said.
His voice was dead calm.
Vanessa backed away toward the door.
“Mark, listen to me...”
“She was sick!”
“She was delusional at the end!”
“She made things up because she was jealous of me!”
Mark took one slow step forward.
“She wasn't delusional, Vanessa.”
“You stole my money.”
“You hit my son.”
“And you tried to steal my father’s home.”
Vanessa reached behind her back for the door handle.
“You have no proof!” she shrieked.
“It’s her word against mine!”
“You signed those power of attorney documents!”
“The house is already sold!”
“You’re too late, Mark!”
She pulled the door open to run.
Standing on the porch was Sheriff Miller.
Behind him stood Sam.
And two uniformed deputies.
Sheriff Miller held up a paper.
“Vanessa Miller,” the Sheriff said sternly.
“You are under arrest for fraud, grand larceny, and child endangerment.”
Vanessa stumbled back.
“No!” she screamed.
“Mark, tell them!”
“Tell them I was helping you!”
The deputies stepped inside and grabbed her arms.
They pulled her hands behind her back.
Click.
The handcuffs snapped shut.
Vanessa struggled wildly.
“You’re nothing without me, Mark!” she spat.
“You’re just a pathetic grease-monkey!”
“You can’t even raise your own kid!”
Mark didn't flinch.
He looked her dead in the eye.
“I am his father,” Mark said clearly.
“And you will never see him again.”
The deputies dragged her out into the rain.
Her screams faded down the driveway as they put her in the squad car.
The house was silent again.
Sheriff Miller looked at Mark.
“We need you to come down to the station to give a statement, Mark.”
“Take your time.”
The Sheriff stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
Mark stood in the empty kitchen.
He felt the weight of three years of lies fall off his chest.
Sam walked inside.
He shook off his wet coat.
He looked at Mark.
He didn't say anything.
He just stood there.
Mark walked over to his brother.
He pulled Sam into a tight hug.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Mark choked out.
“I’m so sorry I didn't believe you.”
Sam patted Mark’s back hard.
“You’re my brother,” Sam said softly.
“You were hurting.”
“That’s over now.”
Toby ran over and wrapped his arms around both of their legs.
Sam leaned down and lifted Toby up onto his shoulder.
Toby giggled.
It was the first time Mark had heard his son laugh in months.
Sam reached into his pocket.
He pulled out the silver frames.
He had welded the center bridge back together with fresh solder.
He had polished the metal until it shined like new.
He put the glasses gently onto Toby’s face.
Toby blinked.
He looked around the room.
“I can see, Uncle Sam!” Toby said happily.
Mark looked at the newly repaired glasses.
May you like
Then he looked at his brother.
“Thank you,” Mark whispered.
