Chapter 11 - The Envelope on the Threshold
The morning after Grace’s birthday party, Jake woke to the sound of the front door alarm.
It was not the loud warning that signaled an intrusion. It was a single soft tone—the sound the system made whenever the door had been opened and closed.
Jake sat up immediately.
Beside him, Megan was still asleep. Grace’s monitor glowed on the nightstand, showing their daughter resting safely in her crib.
Jake reached the hallway and found the front door locked.
Nothing appeared disturbed.
Then he noticed a white envelope lying on the floor.
It had been pushed through the narrow space beneath the door.
There was no stamp, address, or name. Only four words written across the front:
FOR ANDREW SULLIVAN’S SON.
Jake’s father had been dead for nearly eleven years.
He carried the envelope into the kitchen without opening it. Megan joined him moments later, wrapping her robe tightly around herself.
“Who delivered it?” she asked.
“The camera didn’t alert us.”
Jake checked the security application.
The recording from 2:13 a.m. was missing.
Not distorted.
Not interrupted.
Deleted.
Megan stepped away from the window.
“Call Detective Bennett.”
Jake photographed the envelope before carefully opening it.
Inside was an old hospital photograph.
Lorraine lay exhausted in a hospital bed, holding newborn Jake. Andrew Sullivan stood beside her, smiling uncertainly at the camera.
At first, the picture seemed ordinary.
Then Megan pointed toward the transparent bassinet in the background.
A second newborn was lying inside it.
Jake turned the photograph over.
Someone had written a message in faded blue ink:
Baby Sullivan A went home.
Baby Sullivan B disappeared.
May you like
Beneath it was a newer line written in black:
Ask Lorraine what happened to your sister.
