Chapter 8
Anna Becker did not want to speak to Ryan.
That was the first thing Detective Alvarez told us.
I understood.
To Anna, Ryan was not simply a man trying to understand his mother.
He was part of Linda’s family.
Part of a house where no one had protected her.
But Anna agreed to speak to me.
I didn’t know why.
Maybe because I was Lily’s mother.
Maybe because she understood what it meant to realize too late that a child had been afraid.
Detective Alvarez arranged the call.
I sat alone in our bedroom.
Ryan stayed downstairs.
He didn’t argue.
The video connected.
Anna was thirty-six now.
Dark hair.
Tired eyes.
She stared at me for several seconds.
“You’re Sarah?”
“Yes.”
“Lily’s mother?”
“Yes.”
Her jaw tightened.
“How is she?”
“Safe.”
Anna nodded.
“Good.”
I didn’t know where to begin.
So I said,
“I’m sorry.”
Her expression changed.
“For what?”
“For what Linda did.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“I let my daughter stay with her.”
Anna looked away.
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have.”
“Don’t.”
Her voice became firm.
“Don’t give Linda that too.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“She makes everyone responsible for what she does.”
I stopped.
Anna looked back at me.
“She made my mother blame herself for years. She made Emily blame herself. She made your husband blame himself. I’m guessing she made you blame yourself too.”
Tears burned my eyes.
“Yes.”
“That’s how she survives.”
I let out a shaky breath.
“She tells everyone the damage is their fault.”
“Yes.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked,
“What happened to you?”
Anna’s face became still.
“Which part?”
“The night your mother confronted Linda.”
She looked down.
“I was in the basement.”
My stomach clenched.
“Why?”
“Linda caught me taking a photograph.”
“The Polaroid?”
“No.”
I frowned.
Anna continued.
“That came later.”
“What were you photographing?”
“A notebook.”
“What notebook?”
“Her punishment book.”
A chill ran through me.
“Punishment book?”
“She wrote things down.”
“What things?”
“Names. Rules. What we did wrong.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Who was ‘we’?”
“Me. Emily. Rachel. Sometimes other kids.”
“What other kids?”
“Children she babysat. Cousins. Kids from the neighborhood.”
I felt nauseated.
“Why did no one say anything?”
Anna gave me a sad look.
“Some did.”
I thought of Emily.
Nobody believed me.
“What happened when they did?”
“Linda said they lied.”
“And adults believed her.”
“Usually.”
Anna took a breath.
“She was respected. Organized. Helpful. She volunteered at school. She baked for church.”
She laughed without humor.
“Adults loved her.”
I knew exactly what she meant.
Linda could walk into any room and become the most competent person there.
She remembered birthdays.
Organized fundraisers.
Made casseroles when people were sick.
She built credibility like armor.
“So you photographed the notebook.”
“Yes.”
“With what?”
“My mom’s instant camera.”
“And Linda caught you?”
“Yes.”
“What did she do?”
Anna’s eyes changed.
“She locked me in the basement room.”
I swallowed.
“The hidden room?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked away.
“Hours.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“When she finally let me out, my mother was there.”
“Donna.”
Anna nodded.
“I had told Mom before. She didn’t understand how bad it was until that day.”
“What happened?”
“She confronted Linda.”
“Was Thomas there?”
“Yes.”
“And Michael?”
“Later.”
My pulse quickened.
“Michael said your mother was bleeding.”
Anna’s expression hardened.
“She was.”
“Did Linda hit her?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Anna shook her head.
“I’m not getting into that.”
“Okay.”
I respected it.
“What happened after Michael left?”
“My mom called my dad.”
“Where was he?”
“At work.”
“Did he come?”
“Yes.”
“What did your parents do?”
“They packed.”
“That night?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t they call police?”
Anna laughed bitterly.
“My mother wanted to.”
“And your father?”
“He was afraid.”
“Of Linda?”
“Of scandal. Of police. Of losing his job. Of everything.”
Again.
Another adult afraid of consequences.
Another child paying the price.
“So you moved.”
“Yes.”
“Why no forwarding address?”
“My parents wanted Linda to think we vanished.”
“Why?”
“Because she threatened us.”
I stopped breathing.
“What threat?”
Anna looked directly into the camera.
“She said if my mother went to police, she would tell everyone my father had been hurting me.”
I stared.
“Was that true?”
“No.”
My stomach turned.
“She was going to frame him?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She said she had photographs that could be misunderstood.”
I felt cold.
“Did she?”
“I don’t know.”
Anna’s mouth tightened.
“But my father believed her.”
“So your family ran.”
“Yes.”
“And the letters?”
Anna looked surprised.
“You found them?”
“Police did.”
“My mother wrote those.”
“Why?”
“She wanted Linda to stop trying to find us.”
“Linda kept looking?”
“For years.”
“Why?”
“Because she wanted the negatives.”
“What negatives?”
“The photographs I took.”
My pulse jumped.
“The punishment book.”
“Yes.”
“Do you still have them?”
Anna gave me a long look.
Then nodded.
I nearly dropped the phone.
“You do?”
“My mother hid them.”
“Where?”
“She gave them to an attorney years later.”
“Why didn’t you go to police then?”
“We tried.”
My heart sank.
“What happened?”
“The attorney contacted the police department where we used to live.”
“And?”
“They said there wasn’t enough evidence to investigate decades-old claims of child mistreatment.”
“What year was that?”
“About fifteen years ago.”
I thought of the letters.
Twelve years after the disappearance.
Everything connected.
“Do you still have the attorney?”
“He died.”
“The evidence?”
“I have copies.”
I leaned forward.
“Anna, Detective Alvarez needs them.”
“I know.”
“Will you give them to her?”
“Yes.”
I almost cried.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“What do you mean?”
Anna stood and disappeared briefly from view.
When she returned, she held an old envelope.
“I looked at them again this morning.”
“What?”
“The photos.”
My heart pounded.
“And?”
“There’s something I never noticed.”
She held up one photograph.
I couldn’t see details through the screen.
“What?”
Anna’s face tightened.
“In the background.”
“What’s there?”
“A child.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“How old?”
“Maybe five.”
“Was it Emily?”
“No.”
“Rachel?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Anna shook her head.
“That’s the problem.”
Then she brought the photograph closer to the camera.
The image was blurry.
Old.
But behind a table, near the basement stairs, I could make out a small boy.
Blond hair.
Striped shirt.
I stared.
Something about him felt familiar.
Not the face.
The shirt.
I had seen that shirt before.
In one of Ryan’s childhood albums.
My chest tightened.
“Anna.”
“Yes?”
“What year was that photograph taken?”
“Nineteen ninety-nine.”
Ryan would have been sixteen.
His cousin Matthew would have been—
Oh God.
I stood.
“I need Ryan.”
He came upstairs.
“What?”
I pointed at the screen.
“Look.”
Anna held up the photo.
Ryan stared.
Then his face drained of color.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Who is it?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Ryan.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Who?”
His eyes filled with tears.
“My cousin Matthew.”
Anna frowned.
“You know him?”
Ryan didn’t answer.
I asked,
“What happened to Matthew?”
His lips trembled.
“He died.”
The room became silent.
“When?”
Ryan whispered,
“That summer.”
Anna went still.
“How?”
“He drowned.”
My heart stopped.
Ryan continued.
“In my mother’s pool.”
None of us spoke.
I finally whispered,
“How old was he?”
“Five.”
The exact age of the child in the photograph.
Anna’s voice became barely audible.
“Sarah.”
I looked at the screen.
“What?”
“The day I took this photo…”
Her face had gone pale.
“Matthew was alive.”
Ryan pressed one hand against the wall.
I asked the question I already feared.
“When did he drown?”
May you like
Anna answered instead.
“The next morning.”
