Chapter 3 - THE RED NOTEBOOK
We did not open the envelope that night.
Not immediately.
My mother had become too distressed, and I refused to turn her apartment into an interrogation room.
Instead, I helped her back into her chair while Ivan stood by the window holding the photograph.
He kept looking at the date.
I knew what he was thinking.
The same thing I was.
If the photograph was genuine, then my father had been alive six months after the accident.
That meant the story I had carried for more than twenty years was wrong.
Not slightly wrong.
Completely wrong.
My father had not simply died.
He had disappeared.
And someone had wanted me to believe otherwise.
We took the box home.
I put it inside my bedroom closet.
Ivan watched me.
“You're really going to sleep with that in the house?”
“I've slept with worse.”
He looked away.
For the first time in eleven years, my husband seemed to understand that there were parts of my life he had never known how to ask about.
At home, Leo was asleep.
I checked on him before going downstairs.
His little stuffed bear was tucked under his chin.
I kissed his forehead.
Then I stood there longer than usual.
Everything suddenly felt fragile.
My son had asked why his mother cried in the car.
He had not known that the answer went back decades.
Downstairs, Ivan was waiting.
He had made coffee.
Neither of us drank it.
Finally he said, “Tell me about your father.”
I sat across from him.
“My father was strict.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It is the only answer I had.”
“What did he do?”
“He owned a construction company.”
Ivan frowned.
“You never told me that.”
“You never asked.”
That silenced him.
I continued.
“He was respected in town. Everyone thought he was successful. He donated to schools. Sponsored little league. He was the man people shook hands with.”
“And at home?”
I looked at the table.
“He controlled everything.”
Ivan waited.
“He controlled the money. My mother's schedule. Where I went. Who I talked to.”
“Was he violent?”
I hesitated.
“Not in the way you're thinking.”
“What does that mean?”
“He didn't need to hit people to make them afraid.”
Ivan slowly leaned back.
That sentence seemed to settle somewhere inside him.
I opened the wooden box.
The bracelet was simple.
Silver.
A tiny blue stone in the center.
My mother had worn it on the day I last saw her before she supposedly died.
I remembered it because I had been nineteen.
I remembered grabbing it when she hugged me.
I remembered her telling me she loved me.
I remembered my father shouting from the hallway.
Then nothing.
Or almost nothing.
I picked up the envelope.
My hands shook.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
My father's.
Jessica,
If you are reading this, your mother finally decided it was safe.
I stopped.
Ivan leaned forward.
I continued.
I did not leave you because I stopped loving you.
I left because I discovered what your father had been doing with the company accounts.
I looked up.
“What?”
Ivan took the page.
He read silently.
Then his expression changed.
“What company?”
“My father's.”
The letter continued.
Money had been moved.
Accounts had been opened in my father's name.
Properties had been transferred.
And my father had discovered that his own father had been using the family business to hide debts and pressure employees into silence.
Then came the sentence that made my stomach twist.
If I expose him, he will destroy your mother's life and yours.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
My father had not run away.
He had been trying to protect us.
Or at least, that was what the letter claimed.
At the bottom was one final sentence.
There is one person who knows everything. Her name is Margaret Vale.
I stared at the name.
Ivan frowned.
“Who is Margaret Vale?”
“I don't know.”
“You've never heard that name?”
“No.”
Then I remembered something.
A red notebook.
My mother had mentioned it.
I searched the box again.
Nothing.
Ivan stood.
“Maybe it's in the apartment.”
“We aren't going back tonight.”
“We have to.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because someone knew where your mother was.”
I froze.
He did too.
“What?”
I pointed toward the kitchen.
“The apartment was supposed to be secret.”
“You said Wendy knew.”
“Wendy knew.”
“Who else?”
“No one.”
“Then how did your mother get that box?”
I didn't answer.
The question sat between us.
My mother's apartment had been secure.
The medication schedule was controlled.
The stove knobs had been removed.
The doors were reinforced.
Someone had clearly spent time maintaining that place.
Yet the box containing my father's photograph had been hidden beneath the couch.
Someone had put it there.
Someone who knew the apartment.
Someone who knew my mother was alive.
The next morning, I called Wendy.
She answered immediately.
“Is your mother okay?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause.
Then I asked, “Did anyone else know about the apartment?”
Another pause.
“Jessi, why?”
“Please answer me.”
“No.”
“Wendy.”
“No one knew.”
“What about deliveries?”
“Only groceries.”
“Maintenance?”
“No.”
“Anyone from the old neighborhood?”
“No.”
Then she said something that made my blood run cold.
“Except your husband.”
I stared at the wall.
“What?”
“I met him once.”
“When?”
“About three years ago.”
Ivan was standing across the kitchen.
He heard my voice change.
“When did he meet you?”
“Before you knew.”
“What did he ask?”
Wendy hesitated.
“He asked whether your mother still remembered him.”
I slowly turned toward Ivan.
He was already looking at me.
His face had gone pale.
I ended the call.
“What did you do three years ago?”
He didn't answer.
“Ivan.”
“I went looking for information.”
“About my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew you were hiding something.”
I stood.
“You knew she was alive?”
“Not exactly.”
“You met Wendy.”
“I found her name.”
“How?”
“I don't remember.”
“You don't remember?”
He rubbed his face.
“I was worried about you.”
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you lied to me.”
My anger rose.
“You followed me.”
“Yes.”
“You searched my phone.”
“Yes.”
“You went through my car.”
“Yes.”
“And three years ago you secretly searched for my mother.”
He looked down.
“I was trying to understand you.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You were trying to investigate me.”
Before he could answer, my phone buzzed.
It was a photograph.
No message.
Just an image.
The picture showed the wooden box sitting on my kitchen table.
I looked at Ivan.
Neither of us had taken it.
Then another image arrived.
This one showed Leo asleep in his bed.
My blood turned cold.
Someone had taken the photograph from inside our house.
May you like
And beneath the picture was one sentence.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT THE BOX WHERE YOU FOUND IT.
