Emily had a daughter.
She’d married my dad, my grieving, wheelchair-bound dad, and moved into our house carrying a secret I couldn’t begin to understand.
I thought of every question she’d asked me. Every careful smile.
“You will not touch him,” I whispered into the dark. “You will not take one more thing from us.”
My hands were still shaking. I didn’t cry.
I made a list instead, in my head, of everything I needed to find out.
“You will not touch him.”
- The locked drawer.
- The phone calls.
- Wherever Emily went on Thursday afternoons when she said she was grading papers at a coffee shop.
I would find out who my stepmother really was. I owed my mom that much. I owed my dad everything.
***
The morning after the phone call, I became someone I didn’t recognize. A teenage girl who waited for the front door to close, listened for the car to pull away, and then snuck to her stepmother’s bedroom with a pounding pulse.
I owed my mom that much.
Emily kept her side of the closet meticulous.
Her blouses were arranged by color. Her shoes were lined up like soldiers.
The drawer that was usually locked was open that day. Inside was a small wooden box. Locked. Heavy.
I shook it once and heard something soft shift inside. Whatever she was hiding, it lived in this box.
I put it back exactly where I’d found it and went to work on the rest of the room.
I shook it once.
My stepmother’s nightstand held nothing but a book of poetry and a hand cream. Her other drawers were unremarkable. That, somehow, felt worse.
***
That afternoon, I sat in Cynthia’s car two blocks from school and watched Emily leave. She didn’t drive home but went downtown.
My stepmother parked outside a squat brick building and disappeared through a glass door. The sign read Family Counseling Center.
She didn’t drive home.
***
An hour later, Emily came out and walked three doors down to a records office.
I sat in the passenger seat while my co-conspirator gripped the steering wheel.
***
The following day, Cynthia and I followed Emily again.
This time, she met an older woman at a corner cafe. Both of them ordered the same tea and sat as if they’d done it a hundred times before.
Cynthia and I followed Emily.
We parked across the street and took photographs with my phone. Then I snuck closer, and I caught pieces of their conversation.
“After all this time,” the older woman was saying. “You’re sure now is the right time?”
“I couldn’t be sure until the DNA test confirmed what my heart already suspected,” Emily answered. “Now that I know for certain, I can’t keep pretending. I really can’t.”
I snuck closer.
***
I called Uncle David that night.
He’d been Dad’s lawyer since before I was born. I got his number from my dad’s phone while he was in the bathroom.
“Uncle David, I know this might sound strange, but I need a background check.”
He went quiet, but thankfully didn’t ask why.
***
Two days later, Uncle David called me back.
I called Uncle David that night.
“There’s nothing criminal. She has a clean credit history and a clean record. The only unusual thing is old. She filed adoption paperwork at 18. She relinquished a child.”
“A child?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Do I need to be worried, Holly?”
“No, Uncle. I’m just curious about her. Please don’t mention this to Dad.”
He promised not to, but told me to be careful.
“There’s nothing criminal.”
***
I went back for the box.
I told myself I’d only look and would put everything back the way I found it.
I pried the lock with a hairpin. I used a butter knife on the box until the latch gave.
