Chapter 2 - The Sound of Footsteps-2
Downstairs, a floorboard creaked loudly, snapping me out of my catatonic state.
“Uncle Andrew?” Thomas’s voice echoed up the stairwell, rich with casual affection. “Are you still up there? I’m wrapping up the boxes from the living room. Do you want me to come up and give you a hand with the kids' rooms, or do you want me to leave those for tomorrow?”
My muscles locked. Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to hide the letter, to conceal the box, to pretend that nothing had changed. I was an old man with a failing heart, living on borrowed time according to my cardiologist, but right now, adrenaline surged through my veins with the fierce potency of youth.
“I’m fine, Thomas!” I called out, my voice sounding remarkably steady, though my hands were shaking so violently I could barely fold the paper back into its original creases. “Just... reminiscing. Give me ten minutes. I’ll be right down.”
“Take your time!” Thomas replied. “I’m going to grab a bottle of water from the kitchen.”
I slid the letter back into the rusted metal box, slammed the lid shut, and shoved it deep inside the pocket of my oversized wool cardigan. I stood up, swaying slightly as a wave of dizziness washed over me—a reminder of my compromised health, of the ticking clock inside my chest. But I ignored it. Weakness was a luxury I could no longer afford.
I walked out of Maya’s bedroom, closing the door softly behind me as if I were sealing a tomb. I descended the wooden staircase, each step groaning under my weight, my mind racing at a fever pitch.
Gwen was still alive.
At least, as far as I knew, she was. Last I heard, she was living in that same sprawling coastal property in Maine, funded by the insurance payouts and whatever illicit enterprises Marcus Vance had built four decades ago. She would be an old woman now—just as I was an old man. But evil doesn't age the way grief does. Evil stays sharp, hidden beneath a veneer of polite manners and silver hair.
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, Thomas walked out of the kitchen holding a plastic water bottle, wiping sweat from his forehead. He looked at me with genuine concern.
“You look a bit pale, Uncle Andrew,” Thomas said, stepping closer. “Are you sure you’re up for this? We can hire professional movers for the upstairs rooms. You don't need to torture yourself sorting through all those old memories.”
“I’m fine, Thomas,” I said, offering him a thin, tight-lipped smile that didn't reach my eyes. “Just ghosts. You know how it is when you dig up the past.”
“I can’t imagine,” Thomas sighed, looking around the cluttered hallway filled with taped cardboard boxes. “Losing Aunt Clara, Leo, and Maya all at once... I still remember when it happened, even though I was just a kid. Mom always said it was a miracle you survived the heartbreak.”
Your mother. Thomas’s mother—my late sister, Sarah—had always been close to Gwen. They talked on the phone every Sunday. Sarah had comforted me, brought me casseroles, and told me to let go when the police finally closed the investigation.
A cold dread pooled in my stomach. Did Sarah know? Or was she, too, a pawn in Gwen’s grand, monstrous deception?
I didn't answer Thomas. I couldn't. Every person I had trusted for the last forty years suddenly looked like a potential conspirator in the theft of my family.
“Thomas,” I said quietly, my voice carrying a strange gravity that made my nephew pause with the water bottle halfway to his mouth. “When we sell this house... where are all these boxes going?”
“Into the storage unit across town for now,” Thomas answered, blinking in confusion. “Until we get you settled into the guest suite at my place. Why?”
“Because,” I said, looking him straight in the eye, “there is one box that stays with me. In my personal suitcase. It contains things of Clara’s that I need to keep close.”
Thomas smiled gently, misinterpreting my sentimentality. “Of course, Uncle. Whatever you want. You keep whatever you need.”
May you like
That night, lying awake in the guest bedroom on a temporary cot while the rest of the house was packed into cardboard boxes, I stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. The metal box rested safely beneath my pillow, the rusted edges pressing slightly against my cheek.
Forty years ago, a mother sat in the back seat of a station wagon, holding her children, looking out at the black water of a river while a betrayal unfolded around her. Now, the father was awake, and the hunt was finally beginning.
