Chapter 7 - The Day They Erased
I sat on the basement floor while fragments of memory returned in pieces.
A red sweater.
Cold rain.
The smell of gasoline.
A woman's hand holding mine.
Then the hospital.
And my father saying, "You need to forget what happened tonight."
Natalie knelt beside me.
"Mara?"
I couldn't answer.
For most of my adult life, I'd believed I had a complicated but ordinary childhood.
Strict father.
Unhappy mother.
Rebellious sister.
A family that looked better from the outside than it felt on the inside.
But now I was beginning to wonder how much of my childhood had been edited by the people around me.
"I remember an accident," I whispered.
"What kind?"
"I don't know."
I pressed my fingers against my temples.
"Dad said I fell down the stairs."
Natalie stared at me.
"That was the winter you stopped going to school for a month."
I looked up.
"You remember?"
"Of course. We were in the same biology class. Your father told everyone you had a concussion."
"He said I slipped."
"Did you?"
I shook my head slowly.
"I don't think so."
A sound came from upstairs.
We both froze.
The officer was still checking the house.
I called his name.
He answered immediately.
"Everything's fine, ma'am."
I exhaled.
Natalie touched the key.
"Let's deal with what's in front of us."
We took photographs of the letter and the tag.
Then I called Daniel Price.
He listened carefully.
When I mentioned St. Catherine's Hospital, he went quiet.
"That's interesting."
"Why?"
"Your father's company purchased the old hospital property six years ago."
My chest tightened.
"What?"
"St. Catherine's closed more than a decade ago. Bennett Development acquired the site and demolished most of the buildings."
"Of course he did."
Daniel asked me to photograph everything before we moved it.
Then he said something that changed our plan.
"Don't go to the storage unit alone. If Rachel hid evidence there, there's a good chance other people are looking for it."
I told him Sergeant Torres was handling Rachel's case.
"Good. Ask her to coordinate access."
I called Torres.
She agreed to meet us at Northline the following morning, along with an investigator from the state Department of Justice who was reviewing the assault and threats.
That night, I stayed at Natalie's house.
Eliam called four times.
I answered the fifth.
"Are you safe?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Where are you?"
"Somewhere you don't need to know."
He was silent.
Then he said, "Fair enough."
I waited.
"Mara, I know you don't want to hear this, but your father called again."
"What did he say?"
"He wants you to come to dinner tomorrow."
I almost laughed.
"Does he know about Rachel?"
"He's asking questions that suggest he does."
"Such as?"
"He asked whether you'd been digging through your mother's things."
I sat upright.
"What?"
"I didn't tell him anything."
"Then how does he know?"
Eliam exhaled.
"I think he has access to information we haven't identified yet."
I remembered the device in the study.
"Did you remove the listening device?"
"No. I photographed it and contacted Torres. She wants it examined without disturbing any other possible evidence."
I looked toward Natalie's living-room window.
Rain was beginning to fall.
"Eliam."
"Yeah?"
"Did you know about St. Catherine's?"
Silence.
"Mara, where did you hear that name?"
"Answer me."
He hesitated.
"Rachel mentioned it."
"What did she say?"
"That your mother took you there after an incident when you were sixteen."
"What incident?"
"I don't know."
"Do you believe that?"
"What?"
"That you don't know."
His voice cracked.
"I understand why you don't trust me."
"Good night, Eliam."
I ended the call.
I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the hospital hallway.
Someone crying.
A nurse leaning over me.
My father standing in the doorway.
In the morning, Natalie drove me to Northline Storage.
Torres was already waiting beside a dark blue sedan.
A woman in a tan coat stood with her.
"Special Agent Claire Foster," Torres introduced her.
Foster worked for the Wisconsin Department of Justice's Division of Criminal Investigation.
She was in her early forties, with short brown hair and a calm manner.
"I understand you may have material relevant to several criminal allegations," she said.
"I don't even know what it is."
"Then we'll document what we find."
We entered the building together.
Unit 214 was on the second floor.
I inserted the brass key.
It turned smoothly.
My mother had hidden that key more than a decade before Rachel rented the unit.
The thought troubled me.
Why did it fit?
Had Rachel chosen the unit because she already possessed an older key?
Was the number a coincidence?
When I asked, Foster examined the lock.
"The cylinder looks much newer than the door," she said. "We'll photograph it and verify the access records."
Torres helped lift the rolling door.
Inside were four cardboard boxes, a wooden trunk, a folding chair, and a metal filing cabinet.
Dust covered everything except the filing cabinet.
On top sat a photograph.
My mother.
Rachel.
Me.
We were standing in front of our old house during Christmas.
I was fourteen.
Rachel was eleven.
Mom had both arms around us.
Across the bottom, in Rachel's handwriting, were the words:
WE WERE HAPPY BEFORE WE KNEW.
I picked it up.
Something was written on the back.
Forgive me for what I couldn't tell you.
I swallowed hard.
Foster began photographing the unit.
Torres opened the first cardboard box with my permission.
Inside were old business records.
Inspection reports.
Property maps.
Insurance correspondence.
A binder labeled ORTIZ.
My heart pounded.
The second box contained letters addressed to Rachel.
Some were unopened.
Others had been marked with dates and locations.
Natalie found a birthday card.
It was addressed to Oliver.
Age three.
There were dozens more.
I'd missed his entire life.
Then Foster opened the metal cabinet.
Inside was a portable safe.
Beside it lay an old cassette recorder.
A handwritten note had been taped to the front.
MARA - LISTEN BEFORE YOU OPEN ANYTHING ELSE.
I stared at my name.
Foster examined the recorder, photographed it, and checked it for obvious damage.
Then she pressed play.
For several seconds, there was only static.
Then my mother's voice filled the storage unit.
"Mara, sweetheart, if you're hearing this, I need you to be brave."
I covered my mouth.
Her voice.
After all those years.
Real.
Warm.
Terrified.
"I've discovered something Arthur did before you were born. Something he's spent our entire marriage trying to hide."
A pause.
Then Mom began crying.
"I thought I could protect you by staying quiet. I was wrong."
I gripped Natalie's hand.
The tape crackled.
"If he ever tells you that what happened at St. Catherine's was an accident, don't believe him."
My pulse hammered.
"You didn't fall down those stairs, Mara."
A long silence.
May you like
Then Mom whispered something that made the air leave my lungs.
"Your father was trying to stop you from telling the police what you saw."
