Chapter 7 - THE THIRD PERSON
The footage did not show who caused the worst injuries.
The camera failed for ninety-one seconds.
When the image returned, Lily was unconscious.
Patricia was gone.
Voss remained.
He checked Lily’s pulse.
Then he did something Sarah could not understand.
He placed a folded piece of paper beneath the child’s stuffed bunny.
Three minutes later, Voss left through the hidden chamber.
Not through the bedroom.
Investigators searched the burned remains again.
They found a narrow service passage connecting the chamber to Robert’s study.
From there, another concealed door led to the rear garden.
Voss could have entered and left the house unseen.
Sarah returned to the hospital before dawn.
Lily slept.
Her stuffed bunny sat in an evidence bag because police had taken it from the ambulance.
Sarah called Torres.
“The paper.”
“What paper?”
“Voss put something under Bunny.”
There was a pause.
Then Torres said, “I’ll check the collected property.”
Twenty minutes later, she called back.
Nothing had been logged.
Sarah remembered clutching the bunny in the emergency corridor.
She had held it for hours.
Had the paper fallen out?
She searched the hospital room.
The corridor.
The chair where she had sat.
Nothing.
Then Lily woke.
“Mommy?”
Sarah went to her.
“Right here.”
“Where’s Bunny?”
“The police have him for a little while.”
Lily frowned.
“Did you see the note?”
Sarah’s heart jumped.
“What note?”
“The man gave me one.”
“What man?”
“The doctor man.”
“Dr. Voss?”
Lily did not know the name.
“He smelled like medicine.”
Sarah sat beside her.
“What did the note say?”
“I didn’t read it.”
“Why?”
“He said don’t let Grandma see.”
“Where did you put it?”
Lily thought.
“In Bunny.”
Sarah leaned closer.
“Inside Bunny?”
Lily nodded.
“There’s a zipper.”
Sarah had washed that stuffed rabbit dozens of times.
She had never noticed a zipper.
Torres returned with the evidence bag.
An officer opened it carefully.
Beneath the rabbit’s left arm was a concealed zipper no longer than two inches.
Inside were two pieces of paper.
One was new.
The other was old.
The new one contained seven words.
SARAH, THE RED BOOK WAS NEVER DESTROYED.
The old paper was folded into a tiny square.
The handwriting belonged to a child.
Sarah recognized it.
Emily.
SARAH,
IF THEY SAY I DIED, DON’T BELIEVE THEM.
THEY’RE GOING TO GIVE ME A NEW NAME.
I HID THE BOOK WHERE MOM NEVER LOOKS.
DAD THINKS REBECCA HAS IT.
SHE DOESN’T.
I LOVE YOU.
EM.
Sarah read the note three times.
Then rested her forehead against Lily’s bed.
Her sister had known.
At eleven years old, Emily had known her parents planned to erase her.
Daniel arrived later wearing a wrist brace.
Sarah showed him the note.
He sat silently.
Finally he said, “Where did Mom never look?”
Sarah laughed once through her tears.
“Everywhere. She had housekeepers.”
“No. Emily would mean something specific.”
Sarah tried to think like her sister.
Emily had always been clever.
Protective.
Rebellious.
She hid candy inside piano benches.
Birthday cards beneath mattresses.
Secret drawings behind picture frames.
Where did Patricia never look?
Daniel whispered, “The kitchen.”
“What?”
“Mom never cooked.”
Sarah stared at him.
Hawthorne Crest’s kitchen had been remodeled twice.
But one part remained from the original house.
The old servants’ pantry.
Robert had refused to renovate it because he liked the antique cabinetry.
The fire had started in the east wing.
The pantry was on the west.
Torres secured another search authorization.
By noon, investigators entered the pantry.
Inside one old cabinet was a false wooden base.
Beneath it sat a waterproof case.
Inside was not a red book.
It was a note.
Written recently.
HELLO, SARAH.
YOU FINALLY REMEMBERED WHERE SHE HID THINGS.
M.V.
Below that was an address.
72 BIRCH ROAD.
May you like
And one sentence.
COME ALONE IF YOU WANT TO KNOW EMILY’S NAME.
