Chapter 7 - The Fifth Child
The basement became unbearable.
Claire couldn't stop staring at the message.
“Who wrote this?”
Patricia wiped her eyes.
“You did.”
“When?”
“The night before we moved.”
Claire shook her head.
“I don't remember.”
“You weren't supposed to.”
Graves walked toward the old desks.
He opened one.
Inside was a child's notebook.
The cover had Claire's initials.
He handed it to her.
She opened it.
The first pages were drawings.
Then words.
The handwriting was childish but unmistakably hers.
She had written about the other children.
Evan.
Mia.
Thomas.
Lily.
And one name scratched out repeatedly.
C-06.
Claire stared.
“Why did I write this?”
Graves said:
“Because you knew something.”
She turned another page.
There was a list.
Six names.
Next to each name was a date.
Five names had dates.
C-06 had none.
Claire whispered:
“I'm C-06.”
Richard shook his head.
“No.”
Claire looked at him.
“Then why does my handwriting say this?”
Richard walked toward her.
“Because you were helping someone.”
“Who?”
He stopped.
“I don't know.”
Claire's eyes narrowed.
“You're lying.”
Richard looked away.
Patricia spoke.
“Claire, there was another girl.”
Claire froze.
“What girl?”
“Her name was Nora.”
“Where is she?”
Patricia swallowed.
“She was C-06.”
Claire stared at her.
“Then why did you say there were six children?”
“There were.”
“Then where am I?”
Patricia's face collapsed.
“You were never one of them.”
Claire felt a strange emptiness.
“What?”
“You were the daughter of one of the researchers.”
Richard added:
“And Nora was the child they were protecting.”
Claire looked toward the torn photograph.
“Why did you make me believe I was Nora?”
Patricia whispered:
“Because Nora disappeared.”
The room fell silent.
Graves suddenly turned toward the stairs.
Someone was walking above them.
Slow footsteps.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then a pause.
Ryan raised his weapon.
“Who's there?”
No answer.
Graves motioned for everyone to remain silent.
The footsteps continued.
They reached the basement door.
Stopped.
Then a voice spoke.
“Claire.”
Claire recognized it.
Her voice.
Not Patricia's.
Not anyone else's.
May you like
Her own.
The door handle slowly turned.
