Chapter 7 - The Box of Photographs
The metal box contained thirty-seven photographs.
The oldest showed Emily at age three.
She was feeding ducks in the park while I sat on a bench behind her.
Another showed me leaving Laura’s memorial service.
Another had been taken outside Emily’s preschool.
Several were marked with dates.
A few had notes written on the back.
Routine.
Nanny pickup.
Father alone.
Thursday schedule.
My hands shook as I turned them over.
This was not a romance that had become greedy.
It was surveillance.
Claire stood across the table.
“I’ve seen that car.”
She pointed to the edge of one photograph.
A black sedan was reflected in a store window.
“Where?”
“Outside Emily’s school.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked sick.
“I thought it belonged to another parent.”
Detectives collected the photographs as evidence.
Then one officer found a small digital recorder in the box.
Its battery was dead.
They bagged it.
Andrew arranged for a forensic copy of everything.
By evening, Rebecca had been released pending further investigation.
The forgery allegations required digital evidence.
The attempted residential transport had not occurred.
Her lawyer claimed the entire situation was a misunderstanding between adults regarding a child’s treatment.
I wanted to explode when I heard that.
Instead, I changed the locks.
I hired security.
And Emily slept in my bed that night.
At two in the morning, I woke to find her staring at the ceiling.
“Daddy?”
“I’m here.”
“Are you mad at me?”
My chest hurt.
“Why would I be mad?”
“Because I ruined your wedding.”
I sat up.
“You didn’t ruin anything.”
“I gave you the note.”
“You saved me.”
She looked uncertain.
“Really?”
“Really.”
I kissed her forehead.
“You never have to be sorry for telling me when something scares you.”
She thought about that.
Then she whispered something unexpected.
“Rebecca said Mommy would understand.”
I froze.
“When?”
“The day she gave me the note.”
“What exactly did she say?”
Emily frowned as she remembered.
“She said Mommy knew I needed special help.”
My voice became careful.
“Did Rebecca talk about Mommy before?”
“Sometimes.”
“How?”
“She knew things.”
“What things?”
Emily sat up.
“She knew Mommy called me Birdie.”
I stopped breathing.
Birdie had been Laura’s private nickname for Emily.
Almost nobody knew it.
Not even Claire.
Laura used it in letters she wrote to Emily before her death.
Those letters were locked inside a cedar chest in my bedroom closet.
I got out of bed.
The chest was still there.
The lock was intact.
But when I opened it, the letters had been disturbed.
One envelope was missing.
It was the final letter.
The one Laura had written three days before she died.
I searched the chest twice.
Then three times.
Gone.
I called the detective.
Before he answered, Emily came to the doorway.
She was holding her stuffed rabbit.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“I saw Rebecca reading one of Mommy’s letters.”
“When?”
“A long time ago.”
“Where?”
“In your room.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did she do with it?”
Emily swallowed.
“She put it in her purse.”
That missing letter suddenly mattered more than everything else in the house.
May you like
Because I remembered one line Laura had written inside it.
If anything ever happens to me, there is something Michael needs to know about Victor.
