Chapter 4 - The House of Shadows
Mark and Miriam were arrogant. They believed I was too "hysterical" to attempt anything reckless, which made them careless. On Thursday, I tracked their movements. They were hosting a gala at the country club. The house would be empty, save for the live-in housekeeper, a timid woman named Sofia who had been with the family for years and was terrified of them.
I had been planning this for two days. I cut the power to the external security system—a trick I’d learned from a security manual I’d obsessed over for forty-eight hours.
The house was a cavern of silence. My heart rate was a steady, rhythmic thud in my ears. I bypassed the main alarm by sliding through the laundry chute entrance—a narrow, dusty space I knew existed from my years living there. I dropped into the mudroom, my breath hitching as I realized how small the house felt when you were trespassing in your own past.
I crept to the library, where I knew Mark kept his safe. I didn't need the money; I needed the truth. I found a floor safe behind a painting of a yacht. It was an old combination, one he hadn't changed since we were married.
The lock clicked. Inside, it wasn't money or documents. It was a digital recorder and a stack of notebooks.
I grabbed them, my fingers trembling. I opened the first page of a small, leather-bound notebook. It was in Hailey’s handwriting, neat and careful.
“Today, Grandma said if I cry, she will make me stand in the corner until I forget how to speak. I don’t want to forget. I want to tell Mommy I love her. I hope Mommy is still waiting.”
I choked back a sob that threatened to tear my throat open. I kept reading, and the horror deepened. It wasn't just physical abuse; it was systematic brainwashing. They were trying to erase me from her memory, to replace my love with a fear so deep she would become a shell of herself.
Suddenly, a light flickered at the top of the stairs.
Footsteps.
Someone was home. I shoved the journals into my bag, my heart vaulting into my throat. The front door hadn't opened. This wasn't Mark.
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It was Miriam. She hadn't gone to the gala. She was standing at the top of the stairs in a silk robe, a glass of water in her hand, staring directly into the dark library.
"I know you're in there, Elena," she said, her voice dripping with a calm, predatory delight. "And I have been waiting for you to make this mistake."
