Chapter 2 - The Story They Wanted Me to Tell
I stared at the photograph until the pixels blurred.
The third person’s face was turned away.
A woman.
Blue shirt.
Dark pants.
One hand held Emma’s jacket.
The other appeared to be pointing toward the kitchen.
I typed:
WHO IS THIS?
No response.
I called the number.
Straight to voicemail.
I tried again.
Nothing.
Emma was still coloring.
I locked my phone and sat beside her.
There were a hundred questions I wanted to ask.
I asked none.
The child protection worker had been clear about that.
Let Emma speak when she wanted to speak.
Do not turn home into an interview room.
So I made grilled cheese.
I cut hers diagonally because Claire had insisted diagonal sandwiches tasted better.
Emma ate half.
Then she disappeared into her bedroom.
Twenty minutes later, someone knocked.
It was my mother.
I didn't open the door.
“Ryan?”
“What do you want?”
“We need to talk.”
“Not today.”
“I’m your mother.”
“And I’m Emma’s father.”
Silence.
Then her voice softened.
“Please.”
I opened the door but remained in the doorway.
Mom looked exhausted.
“Where’s Emma?”
“Safe.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Brooke is falling apart.”
“How is Emma?”
Mom blinked.
I waited.
She looked away.
There it was again.
Brooke first.
Always Brooke.
“Emma is okay,” I said. “Since you finally remembered she exists.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Is it?”
“Your sister didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“What happened?”
Mom froze.
I almost laughed.
They kept telling me it wasn't intentional while refusing to identify what “it” was.
“I want you to leave.”
“Ryan.”
“Did Emma fall?”
Mom swallowed.
“I didn’t see everything.”
“Did Brooke grab her?”
“She was trying to control the situation.”
“What situation?”
“The cupcakes.”
I stared at her.
“Mom, those must have been the most important cupcakes ever baked.”
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
“My daughter ended up hiding behind an appliance.”
“She gets emotional.”
“She was scared.”
“So was Brooke!”
The words came out too quickly.
Mom knew it.
I knew it.
“Why was Brooke scared?”
Mom stepped backward.
“I meant overwhelmed.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Ryan—”
“Why was Brooke scared?”
She looked past me.
“Is Emma listening?”
That question chilled me.
“Leave.”
“I’m trying to protect this family.”
“So am I.”
She walked away.
That afternoon, the unknown number finally responded.
Check the jacket.
I stared at the message.
The white jacket was hanging over a chair.
I picked it up.
Nothing in the pockets.
I checked the lining.
Nothing.
Then I remembered the sleeve.
At the party, one cuff had been inside out.
I pushed my fingers into it.
Something scratched my fingertip.
A tiny black plastic object dropped onto the table.
A microSD card.
For several seconds I simply stared at it.
Then Emma appeared in the hallway.
Her face changed when she saw it.
“Where did you get this?”
She pointed at the jacket.
“Did someone give it to you?”
She nodded.
“Who?”
Her answer was barely audible.
“Sophie.”
My niece.
Brooke’s six-year-old daughter.
Before I could say another word, my phone rang.
Brooke.
I declined it.
She called again.
Then again.
A message arrived.
Mom told me she went to your house.
Another.
We need Emma’s jacket back.
I looked at the memory card on the table.
My pulse accelerated.
I typed:
Why?
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Returned.
Then Brooke answered.
Because it belongs to Sophie.
That was a lie.
Claire had bought that jacket for Emma.
I still remembered the store.
I still remembered Claire complaining that thirty-eight dollars was ridiculous for something a toddler would outgrow in six months.
I photographed the card without touching it again.
Then I called the child protection worker.
She told me not to insert it into anything.
Someone would collect it.
An hour later, the doorbell rang.
I expected the worker.
Instead, Sophie stood on my porch.
Alone.
Her pink backpack hung from one shoulder.
“Sophie?”
She looked terrified.
“Where’s your mom?”
“At Grandma’s.”
“How did you get here?”
She pointed toward the street.
A woman sat inside a parked car.
The same woman from the photograph.
She stepped out.
I recognized her.
Natalie Reed.
Sophie’s babysitter.
Natalie approached slowly.
“I’m sorry for showing up like this.”
“You sent the picture.”
She nodded.
“Why?”
“Because Brooke is lying.”
Sophie grabbed Natalie’s hand.
I looked from one to the other.
“What’s on that card?”
Natalie’s face went pale.
“I don’t know.”
“But you knew about it.”
“Sophie did.”
My niece looked up at me.
“Emma didn't knock over the cupcakes.”
I crouched.
“You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to.”
“She didn't.”
“Okay.”
“Mom knocked them over.”
Natalie closed her eyes.
I felt the ground shift under me.
“Why?”
Sophie whispered, “Because Emma heard Grandma.”
“Heard Grandma say what?”
Sophie looked toward the hallway.
Emma had appeared behind me.
The two girls stared at each other.
Emma walked forward.
Sophie immediately began crying.
“I’m sorry.”
Emma hugged her.
I looked at Natalie.
“What happened in that house?”
She glanced toward the street.
“We shouldn’t talk outside.”
I let them in.
Natalie sat at my kitchen table.
She told me she had been helping with the party when she heard Margaret and Brooke arguing inside.
About money.
About Claire.
About something my wife had apparently discovered shortly before she died.
My stomach turned.
“What does Claire have to do with this?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just said—”
“I only heard pieces.”
Sophie interrupted.
“Grandma said Aunt Claire should've kept quiet.”
The room became silent.
Emma looked at me.
Claire had been dead two years.
Her death had nothing to do with Brooke.
Nothing to do with my parents.
At least, that was what I had believed.
“What exactly did Grandma say?”
Natalie answered this time.
“She said, ‘Claire almost destroyed this family once. I won’t let Emma do it again.’”
I couldn't breathe.
Then somebody knocked on my front door.
Three slow knocks.
Natalie stood immediately.
“Were you followed?”
“No.”
Another knock.
Sophie grabbed Emma’s hand.
I approached the door.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Brooke appeared.
DON’T OPEN IT.
I looked through the peephole.
My father was standing outside.
But he wasn’t alone.
Beside him stood a woman I hadn’t seen since Claire’s funeral.
May you like
Claire’s older sister.
And she was holding a sealed envelope with my name written across the front.
