Chapter 17 - The House My Mother Never Told Me About
The lake house was tiny.
At least compared with the mansion.
Two bedrooms.
A wooden porch.
Blue shutters.
A dock stretching into quiet water.
It was perfect.
My mother had purchased it five years earlier under her maiden name.
Inside, nothing was luxurious.
Old books.
Board games.
A battered coffee maker.
Photographs.
Hundreds of photographs.
Me as a baby.
Dad cooking badly.
Mom laughing.
Family vacations.
Ordinary life.
I found another letter in the kitchen drawer.
Claire,
Someday I hope this becomes the place where nobody tells you what you should be afraid of.
I sat on the floor and cried.
Not the violent crying that had followed the murders.
This was softer.
Grief changing shape.
That summer, I moved into the lake house.
Rosa came often.
Brooks became a friend rather than a detective.
My new cardiologist treated me like an adult instead of a ticking bomb.
I walked every morning.
At first, half a mile.
Then one.
Then two.
My heart still required monitoring.
I still had limitations.
But limitations weren't a life sentence.
One morning, I carried my father's chessboard onto the porch.
I placed the pieces exactly as he'd taught me.
Black king.
White queen.
Knights.
Bishops.
Pawns.
Then I noticed something scratched beneath the board.
Tiny letters.
Dad's handwriting.
CLAIRE ALWAYS PLAYS WHITE.
I laughed.
He had always let me move first.
Maybe that was his apology.
Maybe it was just Dad being Dad.
Either way, I made the opening move.
And for the first time in months, the future didn't frighten me.
Until my phone rang.
Detective Brooks.
“Claire?”
Something in her voice tightened my chest.
“What happened?”
“We found something in evidence.”
“What?”
“Your mother's phone.”
I stood.
“We've had her phone for months.”
“Not that one.”
Brooks paused.
“A second phone.”
“And?”
“There is one unsent video on it.”
“To whom?”
May you like
“You.”
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