Chapter 1 - The Patch on the Quilt
Seven-year-old Toby refused to put his shoes on.
He stood frozen in the hallway.
His tiny fingers clutched a frayed wool blanket.
"I can't go back," he whispered.
My husband Mark laughed nervously.
He pulled our suitcase closer.
"Don't be silly, buddy," Mark said.
"Aunt Clara made us hot chocolate."
Toby didn't move.
His eyes were fixed on the floorboards.
A tear rolled down his pale cheek.
"She hides the bad shoes under there," Toby said.
My breath caught in my throat.
Mark shook his head.
"He's just tired, Sarah," Mark told me.
I looked down at Toby's feet.
He was wearing mismatching socks.
One sock was stained with dried dirt.
The other sock had a small red mark near the ankle.
I knelt beside my stepson.
"What bad shoes, Toby?" I asked gently.
Toby leaned closer to my ear.
"The ones with the cold buckles," he whispered.
Mark grabbed my arm.
His grip was surprisingly tight.
"Sarah, stop encouraging him," Mark said.
His voice was lower now.
Sharper.
"We need to get inside before the rain starts."
I looked at Mark's face.
His jaw was clenched tight.
He was sweating despite the cool evening breeze.
Why was Mark so eager to leave our apartment?
Why had we moved into his aunt's rural house so suddenly?
And why was Toby terrified of a woman who had offered us free shelter?
Aunt Clara opened the heavy oak front door.
She wore a bright floral apron.
Her smile was warm and wide.
"Welcome home, family," Clara said softly.
She reached out to hug Toby.
Toby flinched backward.
He pulled my skirt against his face.
Clara's hand remained in the air.
Her smile didn't fade.
Not even for a second.
"He's still getting used to me," Clara said smoothly.
"Children take time to adjust after a tragedy."
My heart heavy at the word.
Tragedy.
It had been six months since Toby's biological mother died.
Mark claimed it was an accidental fall.
The police had closed the case quickly.
Yet Toby hadn't spoken more than three words a day since.
Until five minutes ago.
We carried our boxes into the guest bedroom.
The room smelled of old lavender and damp dust.
In the corner sat a giant patchwork quilt.
It looked decades old.
I laid Toby down on the bed.
He squeezed his eyes shut immediately.
He held his breath every time Clara walked past the door.
Mark sat beside me on the wooden bench.
"Thank God Clara took us in," Mark whispered.
"My job loss would have ruined us."
I touched Mark's shoulder.
"Mark, why did Toby talk about shoes?" I asked.
Mark avoided my eyes.
He picked at a loose thread on his jeans.
"Kids say weird things when they are stressed," he said.
"He misses his mother."
"Did your aunt know his mother well?" I asked.
Mark paused.
He looked toward the hallway door.
"They barely spoke," Mark said quickly.
Too quickly.
I stood up to unpack Toby's clothes.
I opened the top drawer of the old dress dresser.
Inside lay a single small leather shoe.
It was covered in dust.
It had a cold silver buckle.
My hands began to tremble.
I picked up the shoe.
It was tiny.
It belonged to a young child.
On the inner sole, a name was written in faded ink.
It did not say Toby.
It said Arthur.
I turned around to show Mark.
Mark was no longer in the room.
I walked down the dark hallway.
The floorboards creaked under my boots.
I heard voices coming from the basement door.
The door was cracked open an inch.
Yellow light spilled onto the floorboards.
I crept closer.
I held my breath.
"You brought him here too soon," Clara was saying.
Her voice was no longer warm.
It was cold and sharp as glass.
"He's starting to remember," Clara added.
"He won't remember anything," Mark replied.
"He was only four when it happened."
My chest felt completely tight.
Four?
Toby was seven now.
What had happened three years ago?
"The girl is asking questions," Clara said.
She meant me.
"Sarah doesn't know anything," Mark said.
"She thinks we moved here for my career."
"Keep her away from the attic," Clara commanded.
"And keep that boy away from the garden shed."
I stepped back slowly.
A floorboard groaned under my left heel.
The basement door clicked shut instantly.
Footsteps hurried up the wooden stairs.
I sprinted back into the guest bedroom.
I dove onto the bed beside Toby.
I pulled the patchwork quilt over my knees.
My heart pounded against my ribs.
Mark walked back into the room a moment later.
He was holding two mugs of tea.
"Clara made this for you," Mark said.
He handed me a mug.
The tea was dark brown and smelled faintly of bitter almonds.
"I'm not thirsty right now," I said softly.
Mark set the mug on the nightstand.
"You should drink it," Mark said.
"It will help you sleep."
He stared at me until I nodded.
I waited for Mark to turn his back.
When he looked out the window, I tipped the mug into a nearby potted fern.
An hour passed.
Mark fell asleep on the small couch.
His heavy breathing filled the quiet room.
Toby was squirming next to me.
He was having a nightmare.
"No, Aunt Clara," Toby whimpered in his sleep.
"Don't put the shoes on me."
I sat up.
I looked at the patchwork quilt.
One square in the center looked different from the rest.
The fabric was newer.
It was sewn with messy white thread.
I leaned closer to examine it.
It was a piece of denim.
There was a small pocket on the square.
I slipped my fingers inside the tiny pocket.
My fingertips touched something hard and metallic.
I pulled it out gently.
It was a small brass key.
Attached to the key was a tiny paper tag.
Written on the tag in faded blue ink were three words:
Under Arthur's bed.
I looked across the room at Mark.
He shifted in his sleep, but did not wake.
I grabbed a flashlight from my purse.
I slid out of bed without making a sound.
I walked out into the dark hallway.
I needed to find Arthur's room.
I passed two closed doors.
The third door had no brass handle.
It had a small keyhole beneath a rusted latch.
I inserted the brass key into the lock.
It turned with a loud metallic click.
The door swung open slowly.
Cold air hit my face.
The room was tiny and completely empty.
Except for a small iron bed frame in the corner.
I crept over to the iron bed.
I knelt on the dusty wooden floorboards.
I shined my flashlight beneath the bed frame.
There was a square cut directly into the wood floor.
The edges were rough.
Someone had pried it open before.
I reached down and lifted the wooden panel.
Inside the dark floor hole lay a rusted metal box.
I pulled the heavy box out onto the floor.
It was secured with a small padlock.
Beside the box lay a small framed photo.
I picked up the frame and wiped away the dust.
My eyes widened in horror.
The photograph showed a young Mark, years ago.
He was standing beside Aunt Clara.
Between them stood a little boy with bright blue eyes.
The boy was wearing the exact same leather shoes with cold silver buckles.
On the back of the photo, a date was written:
July 14, 2021. Our sweet Arthur.
I remembered what Mark had told me when we met.
He said he had never been married before.
He said he had no other children besides Toby.
He had lied to me.
Suddenly, a shadow fell across the open doorway.
I jumped and dropped the photograph.
The glass shattered against the floorboards.
Aunt Clara stood in the doorway.
She was holding a heavy iron fireplace poker.
Her face was completely devoid of emotion.
"You shouldn't have opened that room, Sarah," Clara said softly.
Behind her, Mark stepped into the dark frame.
He looked down at the broken photo on the floor.
"I told you she was too curious, Mark," Clara muttered.
Mark looked at me with cold, unfamiliar eyes.
May you like
"Hand over the metal box, Sarah," Mark said.
"Now."
