Move on to the next chapter and discover what lies ahead.

Maya refused to explain what Renee had hidden until I promised three times that I would not return to the Vance estate alone.

That promise was harder to make than it should have been.

“They’ll know,” she whispered.

“Know what?”

“That Renee told.”

I pulled my chair closer to the hospital bed.

“Maya, nobody is taking you back there.”

“I’m not scared for me.”

That stopped me.

“Then who are you scared for?”

“Renee.”

Maya told me the truth in pieces.

During weekend visits to the Vance estate, she and Renee had become closer than I knew.

Renee was seven years older, quiet, observant, and rarely allowed to leave the property except for school.

Ross called it protection.

Maya called it being trapped.

The old nursery was on the third floor of the east wing, a part of the house nobody used anymore.

Years earlier, when Veronica and her brothers were children, it had belonged to Veronica.

Later it became storage.

One wall had been painted pale blue.

The room contained an antique wardrobe, boxes of clothes, broken toys, and an old rocking horse.

Renee had discovered that one section of the blue wall was hollow.

Behind a removable panel were several memory cards, photocopied documents, newspaper clippings, and a brass key.

“Maya found the panel?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Renee showed me.”

“When?”

“Two weeks ago.”

My throat tightened.

“What was on the memory cards?”

“She wouldn’t show me everything.”

“Why?”

Maya looked down.

“She said some things were too bad.”

I waited.

“But she showed me one video.”

“What video?”

“It was Uncle Ross yelling at a lady.”

“Who?”

“Renee’s mom.”

I knew almost nothing about Renee’s mother.

Ross had married a woman named Celeste Marlow seventeen years earlier.

By the time I married Veronica, Celeste was already dead.

The story I had been told was that she crashed her vehicle on a mountain road during heavy rain when Renee was eight.

Ross rarely mentioned her.

There were no photographs of Celeste displayed anywhere in the estate.

“What happened in the video?”

Maya’s fingers moved nervously against the blanket.

“Renee’s mom was saying she had copies.”

“Copies of what?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did Ross say?”

Maya closed her eyes.

“He said Grandpa Arthur would make everyone think she was crazy.”

That night, I forwarded Renee’s recording to my attorney, Colonel Sterling, and a secure federal contact Sterling provided.

By morning, Special Agent Lena Ortiz arrived at the hospital.

Ortiz worked public corruption cases.

She was forty-something, compact, composed, with the uncomfortable habit of listening without interrupting.

She watched the video twice.

Then she listened to Pauline’s threat.

“This gives us something,” she said.

“Something?”

“Enough to start asking questions outside the local structure.”

“My daughter has broken bones.”

“And I intend to find out who caused them.”

“Ross caused them.”

“I believe you.”

“Then arrest him.”

Ortiz did not flinch.

“If I arrest him immediately with what we have, his attorney argues intoxication, chaotic circumstances, incomplete footage, and contaminated witness testimony. Local police control the first reports. Meanwhile, every person connected to whatever Renee is talking about gets twenty-four hours to destroy evidence.”

I hated that she was right.

“What do you need?”

“The girl.”

“Renee?”

“And whatever is behind that wall.”

There was one problem.

Renee stopped responding.

By noon, my messages were unread.

By evening, her phone went straight to voicemail.

Agent Ortiz requested a welfare check through state authorities rather than San Jeronimo police.

The request returned an answer within two hours.

Renee Vance was reportedly traveling with relatives.

Nobody would say where.

Ross posted a photograph on social media showing himself beside an airport departure board.

The caption read:

Family first. Sometimes kids need a change of scenery.

The picture had been taken months earlier.

Ortiz spotted it immediately.

“They’re buying time,” she said.

The next morning, a package arrived at the hospital.

No return address.

Inside was a paperback copy of The Secret Garden.

Maya recognized it.

“Renee’s.”

Between pages 108 and 109, someone had cut out a square.

Inside the hollow space was a tiny brass key.

The same key Maya had seen behind the blue wall.

There was also a folded note.

Maya asked me to read it aloud.

Daniel,

If this reaches you, they searched the nursery.

The wall is empty now.

I moved the important things.

The key opens Box 214 at First County Storage.

Don’t go alone.

My mother knew what this family was.

She tried to prove it.

They said she died because the road was wet.

The road was dry.

—R

Agent Ortiz arrived less than thirty minutes later.

We drove to First County Storage outside El Paso.

The facility manager confirmed Box 214 had been rented three months earlier under a prepaid arrangement.

The name on the account was Eleanor Rigby.

Fake.

Ortiz obtained access using emergency legal authority.

Inside the box sat a red metal case.

Nothing else.

The brass key opened it.

The first thing we saw was a stack of hospital discharge summaries.

Children.

Different names.

Different years.

Different injuries.

Each incident had happened while the child was on Vance property or at a property connected to Vance businesses.

Nearly every report used similar language.

Fall.

Sports accident.

Horse accident.

Tree accident.

Unsupervised play.

One file was twenty-two years old.

The patient had been eleven.

The report said he broke his collarbone after falling from a hayloft.

Attached was a handwritten note.

He said Mr. Vance’s son did it.

Father accepted settlement.

No police follow-up.

Another file contained photographs of a teenage girl with a fractured wrist.

Another included a settlement agreement.

Another contained a letter from a doctor protesting changes made to his notes.

At the bottom of the case was a small digital recorder.

Ortiz pressed play.

A woman’s voice came through.

Shaking.

Urgent.

“My name is Celeste Marlow Vance. If anyone finds this recording, understand that these are not accidents.”

I felt the room shrink.

Celeste continued.

“Arthur has protected Ross since he was a teenager. Ethan too. Anyone who complains gets paid, threatened, or ruined. Hector changes reports. Pauline pressures families. Veronica knows some of it, but I don’t know how much.”

Maya’s mother.

My former wife.

Celeste inhaled on the recording.

“There are records Arthur keeps separately. He calls them resolution files.”

Agent Ortiz and I exchanged a look.

“They’re coded by lantern symbols,” Celeste said. “One lantern means money. Two means pressure. Three means relocation.”

Her voice changed.

“And four means somebody never talks again.”

The recording clicked off.

Neither Ortiz nor I spoke.

Then I noticed one more folder under the recorder.

It contained a photograph.

Celeste stood beside a much younger Veronica.

Behind them was Chief Hector Miller.

On the back, someone had written a date.

Three days before Celeste died.

And beneath the date:

Veronica tried to help me.

Ask her why she stopped.

That night, I sat beside Maya and wondered whether the woman who had closed the curtain was a monster, a coward, or someone who had spent her entire life being trained to become both.

At 11:46 p.m., my phone vibrated.

Renee.

One message.

They know about the box.

Then another.

Grandpa says I’m leaving tonight.

Then:

I can hear Dad coming upstairs.

I typed:

LOCK YOUR DOOR.

No answer.

Thirty seconds.