Chapter 4 - The Shadow in the Attic
Z
"Just reviewing some old work files," I lied, my voice remarkably steady despite the blood roaring in my ears. I reached over and quietly unplugged the headphones, slipping the digital recorder into my pocket. "Couldn't sleep."
Claire stepped into the room, her eyes darting toward the laptop screen before fixing on my face. She crossed her arms, pulling her robe tighter around her waist.
"You're thinking about what Ari said, aren't you?" she asked softly. She walked over to the desk and leaned against the edge, looking down at me with eyes that seemed full of sorrow. "David, I know how hard this transition is for her. And for you. It’s okay if she misses Sarah. I never wanted to replace her."
"I know," I murmured, watching her every movement. Looking for a slip. A twitch. Anything. "It’s just... she’s never acted like that before."
"Children process grief in strange ways," Claire said gently, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my forehead. Her touch made my skin crawl. "Tomorrow, I’ll call a pediatric therapist. We’ll get through this as a family. I promise."
"Yeah," I said, forcing a faint smile. "A therapist sounds like a good idea. Go back to bed, honey. I’ll be there in a minute."
She lingered for a beat too long, her gaze lingering on my right pocket where the voice recorder sat. Then she nodded, kissed my cheek, and glided out of the room.
I waited until I heard the bedroom door click shut.
My mind was racing. Swap the chart. The estate passes to the child. We stick to the plan.
Sarah hadn't died of unexpected postpartum complications. She had been murdered. Or at least, her treatment had been deliberately sabotaged. And the woman currently sleeping in my bed had planned it years before she ever "accidentally" met me in that toy store.
I pulled out my phone and dialed my mother’s number. She picked up on the second ring.
"David? Is everything okay? Is Ari alright?" her voice was panicked.
"Mom, listen to me very carefully," I whispered into the receiver. "I need you to come pick up Ari right now. Don't come to the front door. I’ll bring her out through the back patio."
"David, what’s going on? You’re scaring me!"
"I can't explain now. Just drive over. Keep your lights off when you turn into the driveway."
Ten minutes later, I carried a sleeping Ari out through the sliding glass doors into the cool night air. My mother was waiting by her running sedan at the edge of the property. I strapped Ari into her car seat, kissing her forehead.
"Take her to your place and lock the doors," I told my mother in a hushed, desperate voice. "Don't answer for anyone. Not even Claire."
"David, please, what did you find out?" my mother pleaded, tears in her eyes.
"Proof," I said grimly. "Now go."
As my mother’s car pulled away into the darkness, I turned back toward the house.
A light was on in the attic window.
The attic was where we kept all of Sarah’s old belongings—her journals, her photo albums, her medical files from the pregnancy, and the memory boxes we had packed away when I remodeled the master suite.
I crept back inside through the patio door, taking care to avoid the squeaky floorboards in the hallway. I pulled the attic ladder down inch by inch, climbing the wooden rungs with my heart hammering against my chest.
The air in the attic was thick with dust and old paper.
At the far end of the room, crouching beneath the low rafters, was Claire.
She had pulled three of Sarah’s plastic storage bins into the center of the floor. She was feverishly flipping through a thick, blue medical folder, throwing papers over her shoulder into a metal trash can she had brought up with her.
Beside the trash can was a small silver lighter.
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"Looking for something?" I asked, standing at the top of the stairs.
Claire froze. The yellow light of the single hanging bulb reflected off the sharp angles of her face as slowly, deliberately, she turned her head to look at me.
