Chapter 5: What I Remembered
The photograph disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
Michael grabbed my shoulder.
“Emily, what do you remember from when you were three?””
“Nothing.””
“Think.””
“I said nothing!””
Dad crawled toward us.
“Michael, stop.””
Michael ignored him.
“Any house? A room? A voice?””
I shook my head.
“I was three.””
Mom looked at me.
“You used to have nightmares.””
“I don't remember.””
“You screamed about fire.””
I stared at her.
“What?””
Mom's eyes filled with tears.
“You would wake up every night saying the same word.””
“What word?””
She whispered it.
“Basement.””
A cold sensation moved through me.
I closed my eyes.
At first, there was nothing.
Then—
A flash.
A red door.
A man's hand.
Smoke.
A woman screaming.
I opened my eyes.
“I remember a door.””
Dad went pale.
“What color?””
“Red.””
Michael and Mom exchanged a look.
“What was behind it?”” Michael asked.
“I don't know.””
“Try.””
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Another flash.
A concrete staircase.
A metal table.
A blinking red light.
And a man's voice.
“Don't let the girl see.””
I gasped.
Dad grabbed my arm.
“That's enough.””
I pulled away.
“Why?””
“Because remembering isn't safe.””
Michael looked at him.
“You know what she saw.””
Dad didn't answer.
I stared at him.
“Tell me.””
He shook his head.
“Not here.””
A gunshot cracked outside.
The police returned fire.
Michael motioned toward the back door.
“We're leaving.””
An officer opened the door.
“Vehicle's ready.””
Mom grabbed my hand.
Dad stood behind us.
“Daniel,” Michael said, “you're coming too.””
Dad nodded.
We ran through the backyard.
Cold air hit my face.
A black government SUV waited beside the fence.
I climbed in with Mom.
Michael got behind the wheel.
Dad jumped into the passenger seat.
The tires spun against the wet pavement.
We tore away from the house.
For several minutes, nobody spoke.
I stared through the rear window.
Our house became smaller.
Then disappeared.
Mom sat beside me, holding her injured cheek.
I looked at her.
“Did Dad really kill Ethan?””
She stared at her hands.
“No.””
“Then what happened?””
“He died trying to protect us.””
My throat tightened.
“How?””
Mom looked out the window.
“He was an investigator.””
“Like Michael?””
“Yes.””
“And you knew him?””
“Yes.””
“Were you married?””
She hesitated.
“Yes.””
I swallowed.
“So Daniel stole his identity?””
“No.””
Dad turned around.
“Your mother asked me to.””
I stared at him.
“Why?””
He looked exhausted.
“Because Ethan was dead.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because Blackridge believed you were the key to finding their missing evidence.””
“What evidence?””
Nobody answered.
The SUV turned sharply.
Michael checked the mirror.
“We have company.””
Two headlights appeared behind us.
Then four.
Dad leaned forward.
“How many?””
“Three cars.””
Mom grabbed my hand.
“Emily, listen to me.””
“What?””
“If they catch us, don't tell them anything.””
“I don't even know anything!””
Mom looked at me.
“You know more than you think.””
The convoy sped onto a highway.
The cars behind us followed.
Michael reached beneath the dashboard and pulled out a small black case.
“What's that?”” I asked.
“Insurance.””
He opened it.
Inside was a tiny recorder.
He handed it to me.
“Your mother recorded a statement seventeen years ago.””
I stared at it.
“Why are you giving it to me?””
“Because if we don't make it to the safe house, you'll need to hear it.””
Mom shook her head.
“Michael, no.””
“She deserves to know.””
Dad looked back.
“She's not ready.””
“I wasn't ready either,” Michael said.
The first pursuing car accelerated.
Michael swerved.
“Hold on!””
The SUV lurched.
Mom screamed.
I grabbed the seat.
A vehicle pulled alongside us.
The rear window rolled down.
Someone pointed a gun.
Michael slammed the brakes.
The black car shot past.
He accelerated again.
“Are we going to die?”” I asked.
“No,” Michael said.
Dad looked at him.
“You don't know that.””
Michael's jaw tightened.
“I'm not planning on it.””
We drove for another ten minutes.
Then the pursuing cars vanished.
Michael took an exit into a wooded area.
The road narrowed.
Trees closed around us.
Finally, a steel gate appeared.
Michael entered a code.
The gate opened.
Beyond it stood an old brick house surrounded by tall trees.
“This is the safe house,” he said.
Inside, everything was painfully ordinary.
A kitchen.
Three bedrooms.
A fireplace.
Family photographs that clearly belonged to nobody.
Mom sat at the table.
Dad stood near the window.
Michael locked the doors.
Then he placed the recorder in front of me.
“Before you listen,” he said, “understand something.””
I looked at him.
“What's that?””
“The woman who recorded this believed she was going to die.””
Mom covered her face.
I pressed the button.
Static.
Then my mother's younger voice.
“If you're hearing this, something happened to me.””
I stared at Mom.
The recording continued.
“My name is Sarah Vale.””
Her voice trembled.
“I have proof that Blackridge Security murdered twelve people.””
I stopped breathing.
The younger Sarah continued.
“But that isn't the worst part.””
A pause.
“The worst part is that one of those twelve people was someone I trusted.””
The recording crackled.
Then came a man's voice in the background.
“Sarah?””
She gasped.
The recording ended.
I looked up.
“Who was that?””
Mom was crying.
Michael wouldn't meet my eyes.
Dad stared at the floor.
I played the recording again.
The voice came through clearer the second time.
“Sarah?””
I recognized it.
I had heard that voice every morning of my life.
I slowly turned toward Dad.
“That was you.””
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.””
My hands began shaking.
“You were there.””
“Yes.””
“You were there when the murders happened.””
Dad nodded.
“And you helped her escape.””
“Yes.””
I stood.
“Then why did you spend seventeen years pretending to be my father?””
He looked at me.
“Because the real reason Blackridge wanted you wasn't the evidence.””
“What was it?””
Dad opened his mouth.
Before he could answer, the safe house lights went out.
The room went completely black.
Then a phone rang somewhere upstairs.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Michael whispered, “Nobody move.””
The phone rang again.
Mom began trembling.
Dad looked toward the staircase.
“That phone isn't connected.””
The ringing stopped.
A second later, every light in the house came back on.
And on the kitchen table, beside my hand, was a photograph that hadn't been there before.
It showed me asleep in my bedroom.
Taken that morning.
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On the back, someone had written:
*YOU SHOULD HAVE ASKED WHAT SHE HID UNDER YOUR BED.*
