Chapter 9 - Isabella’s RoomI returned to the estate that afternoon with police, child protective services, Dr. Lang’s report, Julian’s injunction, and a locksmith.
Not with Isabella.
Never with Isabella.
She was safe at a private apartment Julian owned under his law firm’s name, watching cartoons with Marta and eating pancakes at two in the afternoon because she had asked twice whether she was allowed to be hungry.
That question had nearly undone me.
The estate looked different when I arrived.
Same gates.
Same fountain.
Same white columns.
Same manicured lawn where charity guests had once complimented Celeste on her roses.
But I no longer saw beauty.
I saw hiding places.
Officers photographed the laundry room first.
There was a folded blanket behind the dryer.
A child’s book under the utility sink.
A plastic cup.
Three tally marks scratched into the wall beside the door.
I touched them with one finger.
One.
Two.
Three.
Nights.
Maybe more.
A detective named Laura Haines stood beside me.
“She scratched these?”
“I don’t know.”
My voice sounded far away.
“We’ll process it.”
Next came the pantry.
The lock had been installed on the outside.
No one spoke when they saw that.
Then Isabella’s bedroom.
I had decorated it myself after her mother died. Soft cream walls. Painted stars near the ceiling. A canopy bed. A shelf full of stuffed animals. A little desk shaped like a cottage.
At first glance, it was perfect.
That was the point.
Detective Haines opened the closet.
Most of Isabella’s clothes were gone.
In their place were sealed storage bins.
Julian pulled one down.
Inside were new dresses with tags still attached.
Expensive ones.
Photo clothes.
The kind Celeste posted online when she wanted the world to call her a devoted stepmother.
Under them, tucked into a shoebox, we found the real wardrobe.
Stained socks.
A torn sweater.
Three undersized nightgowns.
A beige floral dress with missing buttons.
The one Isabella had been wearing had not been an accident.
It had been part of a system.
Marta stood in the doorway, crying silently.
“I should have seen.”
I turned to her.
“You tried.”
“Not enough.”
“Enough to save evidence.”
She shook her head.
“Not enough to save her from being afraid.”
There was no answer that could erase that truth.
In the desk drawer, Detective Haines found a notebook.
Pink cover.
Glittery butterfly sticker.
Isabella’s name written in careful letters.
I almost told her not to open it.
Then I remembered my daughter whispering that no one would believe her.
So I let the detective open it.
The pages began with ordinary childhood things.
A drawing of me wearing a crown.
A drawing of Celeste with long black hair and red lips.
A drawing of a house with too many windows.
Then the handwriting changed.
I was bad today because I cried.
Mrs. C said Daddy likes quiet girls.
I am not hungry if I say I am not hungry.
Grandpa said don’t make Dad sad.
One page had only three words written over and over.
Dad come home.
Dad come home.
Dad come home.
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
Not because I wanted to.
Because my legs stopped working.
Julian placed a hand on my shoulder but said nothing.
Detective Haines turned another page.
There was a drawing of a woman.
Not Celeste.
Not Marta.
An older woman with gray hair, sitting in a chair.
Above her, Isabella had written:
The lady in the red room says I am brave.
I lifted my head.
“What?”
Marta stepped closer.
“She drew Caroline.”
My heart began pounding.
“Caroline was here?”
Marta nodded slowly.
“Once. Maybe twice. I thought I imagined it.”
“You saw her?”
“Years ago. Before Mrs. Celeste. Mr. Richard brought an older woman to the estate during a storm. She was crying. He said she was a confused aunt. He kept her in your father’s old study.”
“The red room.”
“Yes.”
Detective Haines looked alert.
“Show us.”
We moved to the west wing, a part of the estate used mostly for formal dinners and family portraits.
My father’s old study had been converted into a wine room after Margaret died.
Red walls.
Mahogany shelves.
Hundreds of bottles.
Julian examined the wall behind the Burgundy section.
“There should be a door.”
Marta stepped forward.
“Not there.”
She went to the fireplace.
Pressed the carved eye of a lion on the mantel.
Something clicked.
A narrow panel opened behind a rack of decanters.
Even Detective Haines looked surprised.
Inside was a small room with red velvet wallpaper, a desk, a filing cabinet, and a portrait turned toward the wall.
I crossed the room and turned the portrait around.
Caroline Vale.
Young.
Pregnant.
Standing beside my father.
Her eyes were not smiling.
Behind the portrait was a wall safe.
Julian inhaled.
“The second key.”
I remembered Caroline’s words.
The woman in the red room knows where the second key is.
But the woman in the red room was not Caroline.
It was Margaret.
The dead wife.
The woman who helped steal me.
The woman who kept records because she knew Richard would betray her too.
Detective Haines called for a forensic locksmith.
Julian examined the desk.
In the top drawer, beneath faded stationery, he found an envelope addressed in elegant handwriting.
To Grant, when Richard finally lies too far.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside was one sheet.
Margaret’s handwriting.
I was not innocent. But I was not the worst thing in this house.
The combination is your birthday, Caroline’s birthday, and the day Isabella was born.
May you like
Behind the steel is the truth.
Use it before Richard teaches your daughter to disappear too.
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