Chapter 2: The Secret Inside the House
I didn’t sleep that night.
Not because I was angry.
Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw the photograph.
Someone had been in Maya’s room.
Someone close enough to take that picture.
Someone who wanted me to know.
At 6:15 the next morning, I drove home.
The house looked exactly the same.
That was the worst part.
The same blue curtains.
The same coffee mug sitting beside the sink.
The same family photos on the wall.
Except now I saw everything differently.
I walked into Maya’s room.
Her stuffed animals were still lined up on the shelf. Her school backpack sat by the desk.
I opened the drawer beside her bed.
Inside were notebooks, pencils, and a small purple box.
I almost closed it.
Then I remembered her words.
She told me not to tell you.
My hands shook as I opened the box.
Inside were folded pieces of paper.
The first one was a drawing.
A picture of three people holding hands.
Me.
Maya.
And Claire.
But Claire’s face had been crossed out.
My chest tightened.
I opened another paper.
It was a note.
*I miss when it was just me and Dad.*
I sat on the floor.
Because suddenly I wasn’t investigating.
I was grieving.
How long had my daughter been feeling alone?
How long had I been too busy trying to save my marriage to notice?
The sound of the front door opening made me stand.
Claire walked in.
She stopped when she saw me.
“You’re home.””
I held up the purple box.
Her face changed.
“Did you go through her things?””
“She’s my daughter.””
“So that gives you permission to invade her privacy?””
I stared at her.
“Privacy?””
“Yes.””
“My daughter was drugged.””
Claire looked away.
“You’re making me the villain.””
“I’m asking you questions.””
“No,” she said.
“You’re looking for proof.””
“Maybe because I need to understand why she was afraid of you.””
Claire’s jaw tightened.
“She never accepted me.””
That sentence surprised me.
“What?””
“She always saw me as the woman who replaced her mother.””
“That’s not true.””
“Isn’t it?””
I didn’t answer.
Because I remembered.
Maya had struggled after her mother died.
She was six years old.
She had asked me if loving Claire meant forgetting her mom.
I told her no.
I promised her nothing would change.
But things did change.
Claire moved in.
Then we got married.
Then Maya became the child who needed “adjusting.””
At the time, I thought Claire was helping.
Now I wasn’t sure.
My phone rang.
It was Doctor Harris.
I answered immediately.
“Is Maya okay?””
“She’s stable,” he said.
“But Marcus, there’s something you should know.””
I gripped the phone.
“What?””
“The medication wasn’t given once.””
My blood ran cold.
“What do you mean?””
“We found traces indicating repeated exposure over several weeks.””
I looked at Claire.
She was watching me.
“How many weeks?””
“At least a month.””
A month.
My daughter had been carrying something inside her body for a month.
And I hadn’t known.
“Doctor, who would have access?””
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.””
After the call ended, Claire stepped closer.
“What did he say?””
I looked at her.
“Why didn’t you tell me she was sick?””
She blinked.
“What?””
“You lived with her every day.””
“I didn’t know.””
“You didn’t notice?””
Her face became defensive.
“I’m not her mother.””
The words came out fast.
Too fast.
And the moment they left her mouth, she regretted them.
I stared at her.
“You just said the one thing you always told me wasn’t true.””
She looked down.
“I didn’t mean it like that.””
But I had heard it.
A knock came from the door.
Two police officers stood outside.
One of them held a folder.
“Mr. Bennett?””
“Yes?””
“We need to ask you about your wife.””
Claire stepped back.
The officer opened the folder.
“We found something in the medication cabinet.””
My heart pounded.
“What?””
He looked at Claire.
“A bottle that belonged to someone else.””
Claire’s face went pale.
The officer continued.
“And the prescription was written under a name we didn’t expect.””
He turned the folder around.
The name on the paper made my entire body go cold.
May you like
Because I knew that name.
It belonged to someone who had been dead for six years.