Part 4: The Missing Pages
For a while, life seemed determined to return to normal.
The house still smelled like lavender soap after bath time.
The hallway clock still clicked softly every second.
The same cartoons played in the background while Sophie colored at the kitchen table.
And yet nothing felt quite the same.
Once fear enters a home, it never leaves completely.
It simply changes shape.
Three weeks had passed since the night I pushed open the bathroom door and discovered the truth behind Mark's secret routine.
The occupational therapist, Dr. Elaine Porter, visited twice a week now. According to her, Sophie's sensitivity to water, textures, and transitions had been creating anxiety neither of us fully understood.
Mark had been following a therapy plan.
Badly.
Secretly.
But not maliciously.
The relief should have been enough.
Most days, I told myself it was.
Yet every night after Sophie fell asleep, I found myself replaying tiny moments in my head.
Things that no longer fit.
The notebook bothered me most.
Mark had left it on the kitchen table that night as if it explained everything.
Maybe it should have.
But it didn't.
Not entirely.
I discovered that by accident.
It happened on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.
Mark was at work.
Sophie was building a blanket fort in the living room.
I was cleaning out the kitchen junk drawer when I found the notebook tucked beneath a stack of expired coupons and old batteries.
I picked it up without thinking.
The cover was worn from use.
The corners curled.
Inside were pages and pages of notes.
Bath times.
Observations.
Recommendations copied from therapy sessions.
Progress reports.
Everything appeared exactly as I remembered.
Until I reached the middle.
Something felt wrong.
I flipped back.
Then forward.
Then back again.
My stomach tightened.
The page numbers didn't match.
Page 42.
Page 43.
Page 44.
Then suddenly...
Page 51.
Seven pages were missing.
Not torn accidentally.
Removed carefully.
The edges were clean.
Deliberate.
I sat down at the kitchen table.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
My pulse quickened.
Why would anyone remove seven pages from a notebook meant to document therapy exercises?
I told myself there was probably an innocent explanation.
Maybe Dr. Porter had asked him to discard outdated instructions.
Maybe he made mistakes.
Maybe—
I stopped.
There was that word again.
Maybe.
The same word that had nearly convinced me to ignore my instincts before.
I took out my phone and snapped photos of the missing section.
Then I put the notebook back exactly where I'd found it.
That evening, I waited until after Sophie went to bed.
Mark was loading dishes into the dishwasher.
I leaned against the counter.
"Why are pages missing from the notebook?"
The plate slipped from his hand.
Not enough to fall.
Just enough.
A tiny reaction.
Almost invisible.
But I saw it.
His shoulders stiffened.
"Missing pages?"
"Pages forty-five through fifty."
Silence.
The dishwasher hummed.
Water rushed through pipes.
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far away.
Then he nodded.
"Oh."
Just one word.
Too quick.
Too rehearsed.
"I removed them."
"Why?"
His gaze dropped.
"I didn't think they mattered anymore."
"What was on them?"
Another pause.
"Early notes."
"About what?"
"Sophie's therapy."
I waited.
He didn't continue.
The air between us felt heavier than it should have.
Finally he shrugged.
"They weren't important."
I wanted to press harder.
Instead I nodded.
Because sometimes people tell more lies when they think you've accepted the first one.
That night I couldn't sleep.
Around midnight I climbed out of bed and went downstairs.
The house sat silent around me.
Moonlight filtered through the windows.
Everything looked silver.
Still.
Empty.
I made tea.
Sat at the kitchen table.
Opened my laptop.
And searched for Dr. Elaine Porter.
Her website appeared immediately.
Professional.
Well-reviewed.
Local.
Nothing unusual.
Then I noticed something.
Her office address.
I stared at the screen.
Read it again.
Twice.
Three times.
A strange feeling crawled up my spine.
The notebook contained dozens of references to appointments.
Dates.
Session summaries.
Recommendations.
But according to the website...
Dr. Porter had only opened that office eight months ago.
The notebook entries went back nearly two years.
I checked again.
Maybe she had moved locations.
Maybe the website was outdated.
Maybe—
Again.
Maybe.
I closed the laptop.
The tea suddenly tasted bitter.
The next morning, after dropping Sophie off at preschool, I drove across town.
I didn't tell Mark.
I wasn't even sure why I was going.
Curiosity, perhaps.
Or instinct.
Sometimes they're the same thing.
The therapy office occupied a small brick building near a park.
Children's drawings decorated the waiting room walls.
A receptionist greeted me with a warm smile.
"Can I help you?"
I forced one back.
"I have a question about my daughter's records."
She nodded.
"What name?"
"Sophie Carter."
The receptionist typed briefly.
Then frowned.
"Hmm."
"What?"
She typed again.
Frowned deeper.
"I'm sorry."
My heart skipped.
"What is it?"
She looked up.
"I don't see any records under that name before three months ago."
I froze.
"What?"
"Three months ago was her intake appointment."
"No," I said immediately. "That's impossible."
The receptionist turned her monitor slightly.
"I only have six visits on file."
Six.
Not two years.
Not dozens of sessions.
Six.
The notebook flashed through my mind.
Every page.
Every date.
Every detailed observation.
I felt cold despite the warmth inside the office.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded.
"Absolutely."
The room seemed to tilt slightly.
I thanked her and left before she could ask questions.
Outside, the sky hung gray and heavy.
My hands trembled as I unlocked the car.
Something wasn't right.
Something was very, very wrong.
The notebook wasn't simply incomplete.
Large parts of it appeared impossible.
I drove home in silence.
Halfway there, my phone buzzed.
A text from Mark.
How's your day going?
I stared at the message.
Then at his smiling contact photo.
The same smile that had reassured me for years.
The same smile that had convinced me to doubt myself.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Finally I typed:
Fine. Just running errands.
His response came immediately.
Love you.
Three simple words.
Words that should have comforted me.
Instead they made my stomach twist.
Because for the first time in weeks, I found myself wondering something I thought I'd already answered.
How much did I actually know about my husband?
That evening Sophie seemed unusually quiet.
She pushed peas around her dinner plate.
Barely touched her chicken.
Normally she would chatter endlessly about preschool.
Finger painting.
Story time.
Friends.
Tonight she barely spoke.
"Everything okay, baby?" I asked.
She nodded.
Too quickly.
The same way children do when they're hiding something.
Mark noticed too.
"You seem tired, peanut."
Sophie looked down.
Then whispered:
"I had a dream."
"What kind of dream?" I asked gently.
Her fork stopped moving.
For a moment she seemed uncertain.
Then she looked directly at me.
Not at Mark.
At me.
And what she said next sent ice through my veins.
"The lady in the bathroom was angry."
The room went silent.
Mark's fork clattered against his plate.
A sharp metallic sound.
"What lady?" I asked carefully.
Sophie's eyes widened.
As if she hadn't meant to say it.
As if the words escaped by accident.
"The lady who watches."
My pulse pounded.
"Sweetheart..."
Mark interrupted.
"Sophie."
His voice sounded different.
Too fast.
Too nervous.
She immediately stopped talking.
The change was instant.
Like a switch flipped.
Her shoulders tightened.
Her gaze dropped.
And suddenly she looked afraid.
Not terrified.
Just cautious.
The way children look when they realize they've broken an invisible rule.
"It's okay," I said softly.
"No," Mark said.
Then he forced a laugh.
"A kid dream."
Nobody laughed.
Especially not Sophie.
After dinner she went upstairs early.
The moment her bedroom door closed, I turned toward Mark.
"What was that?"
"What was what?"
"You know exactly what."
He rubbed his forehead.
"She's five."
"Mark."
"Kids imagine things."
"The lady who watches?"
He sighed.
Then stood.
"I don't want to do this again."
"Again?"
"The suspicion."
The word hit harder than I expected.
Suspicion.
As if I were the problem.
As if asking questions somehow made me unreasonable.
But this time I didn't back down.
"Did you ever tell her there was a woman in the bathroom?"
"No."
"Did anyone else?"
"No."
"Then where did she get it from?"
His jaw tightened.
"I don't know."
For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then he quietly said:
"Maybe she remembers."
I blinked.
"Remembers what?"
The color drained from his face.
Instantly.
As though he regretted speaking.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
Nothing.
Silence.
Then:
"I shouldn't have said that."
"Mark."
He looked away.
"Forget it."
My heartbeat accelerated.
"No."
The kitchen suddenly felt smaller.
The air thinner.
Every instinct screamed the same thing.
The missing pages.
The impossible therapy notes.
Sophie's fear.
The lady who watches.
And now this.
Maybe she remembers.
Remembers what?
Before I could ask again, a loud crash echoed upstairs.
Both of us jumped.
Sophie's room.
We ran.
The bedroom door stood open.
Her night-light projected stars across the walls.
The stuffed bunny lay on the floor.
The closet door was slowly swinging back and forth.
Creak.
Creak.
Creak.
Sophie stood frozen beside her bed.
White as a sheet.
Pointing toward the closet.
Neither of us spoke.
Neither of us moved.
May you like
Then Sophie whispered six words that made every hair on my body stand up.
"She's in there again tonight."
To Be Continued...
