Chapter 1 - A Locked Drawer in the Nursery
Seven-year-old Toby stood on the kitchen counter with a hammer.
He hit the brass lock on the high cabinet.
The loud crack echoed through the quiet house.
His stepmother, Clara, dropped her coffee mug.
It shattered against the tile floor.
“Toby, drop that right now!” she screamed.
Toby did not move.
He did not flinch.
He opened the wooden cabinet door.
Inside sat a worn leather shoe box.
He pulled it down carefully.
His biological father, Marcus, ran into the room.
Marcus saw the broken glass on the floor.
He saw the heavy hammer in his son’s small hands.
“Toby, what are you doing?” Marcus asked, breathless.
Toby looked directly at Marcus.
He had not spoken a single word in six months.
Not since his biological mother died in the hospital.
Clara rushed forward to grab the box.
“Give that to me!” she snapped.
Toby hugged the box to his chest.
He pointed a shaking finger at Clara.
Then he made a sharp, strange sound in his throat.
Marcus stepped between them.
“Wait, Clara,” Marcus said.
“That was Sarah’s box,” Clara insisted.
“He is ruining her memory.”
Marcus looked down at his silent son.
“Toby, open it,” Marcus said softly.
Toby set the box on the counter.
He lifted the lid.
Inside was a stack of yellow legal pad pages.
Every page was covered in child drawing signatures.
Each drawing showed a house with a red door.
Under each house, a sentence was written in blue crayon.
“She told me to forget.”
Marcus frowned.
“Toby, did you write this?” Marcus asked.
Toby shook his head firmly.
He pointed at the handwriting.
It was adult handwriting.
Clara’s face lost all color.
“This is ridiculous,” Clara whispered.
“He is playing games again.”
“He doesn’t talk, Marcus.”
“He is manipulating you.”
Marcus picked up the top paper.
The date at the top was three months ago.
That was three months after Sarah’s funeral.
That was the month Clara moved in.
Marcus looked at his wife.
“Why is your handwriting on Toby’s paper?” Marcus asked.
Clara backed away slightly.
“I was helping him practice writing,” she said quickly.
“He was upset.”
“He was making up stories.”
Toby reached inside his small denim jacket.
He pulled out a silver key.
It was tied to a blue shoe string.
Marcus recognized the key immediately.
It belonged to Sarah’s old photography studio.
The studio had been locked since the funeral.
Clara had told Marcus the key was lost.
“Where did you find this?” Marcus asked Toby.
Toby pointed directly at Clara’s purse.
Clara took a step toward the hallway.
“I found it yesterday in the garage,” Clara lied.
“I forgot to tell you.”
Toby grabbed Marcus’s sleeve.
He tugged it hard toward the front door.
“He wants to go there,” Marcus said.
“No, Marcus, look at the time,” Clara said.
Her voice was rising in panic.
“He needs his medicine.”
“He needs rest.”
Marcus looked closely at Toby’s eyes.
There was no confusion in them.
There was only terror.
And determination.
“We are going to the studio,” Marcus said.
Clara stood in front of the door.
“If you leave now, you are choosing him over our marriage.”
Marcus stopped.
He held Toby’s hand tightly.
“He is my son, Clara.”
Marcus pushed past her.
They walked down the driveway to the car.
Clara did not follow them.
She stood on the porch, holding her phone.
Her fingers typed rapidly.
Marcus put Toby in his car seat.
“What is in the studio, Toby?” Marcus asked.
Toby held up three fingers.
Then he made a locking motion with his hands.
Marcus started the engine.
The studio was ten minutes away.
It was an old brick building downtown.
Sarah had used it for her portrait business.
When they arrived, the street was dark.
Rain began to hit the windshield.
Marcus unlocked the front door of the studio.
The smell of old paper and dust hit them.
Everything was covered in white sheets.
Toby ran straight to the back room.
Marcus followed him closely.
Toby pulled a white sheet off a large wooden desk.
On top of the desk was a cassette recorder.
Beside it sat a fresh tape.
Written on the tape in marker was one word:
LISTEN.
Marcus reached for the tape.
Before he could touch it, the front door slammed open.
Heavy footsteps walked into the studio.
Marcus turned around quickly.
Standing in the doorway was Clara’s adult brother, Greg.
Greg held a crowbar in his hand.
“Step away from the desk, Marcus,” Greg said.
Marcus pulled Toby behind him.
“What are you doing here, Greg?”
“Clara called me,” Greg said coldly.
“You were never supposed to come here.”
Toby squeezed Marcus’s hand.
Marcus looked at Greg’s wet boots.
There was red mud on them.
The same red mud from Sarah’s garden.
“What did you do?” Marcus asked.
Greg raised the crowbar.
May you like
“Clara built a good life for us.”
“You aren’t going to ruin it.”
