Chapter 3: What the House Was Hiding
Officer Dana Reyes had been doing this job for eleven years.
She had walked into houses that looked fine from the street and found things inside that stayed with her for months.
She had learned not to trust a tidy kitchen.
She had learned not to trust a calm voice.
The stepmother's name was Renee.
She stood in the hallway with her arms folded and her chin slightly lifted, watching the officers move through her home.
"You're welcome to look at anything," Renee said.
"I have nothing to hide.
Emily is a difficult child.
She has always had behavioral issues.
Her own teachers will tell you."
"We've spoken with her teacher," Dana said.
Renee's expression didn't shift.
"Then you know how she exaggerates."
Dana said nothing.
She moved toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
The first door was a guest room.
Neat.
Unused.
The second door was the master bedroom.
The third door was locked.
"What's in here?" Dana asked.
"Storage," Renee said, from behind her.
"Boxes.
Old furniture."
"Can you open it?"
A pause.
Short, but there.
"I don't have the key on me right now."
Dana turned around.
"You don't have the key to a room in your own house."
"I'd have to look for it."
Dana's partner, Officer Tran, was already photographing the lock.
New.
Heavy-duty.
The kind you put on a door when you want to be very sure it stays closed.
They moved to the backyard.
The kennel sat in the far corner, half-shaded by a wooden fence.
Dana crouched beside it.
The small blanket was pale yellow, printed with cartoon rabbits.
Worn thin at the edges.
Washed recently — she could smell the detergent — but the fabric itself was compressed from long use.
Something that had been slept on many times.
She stood up and looked at Renee.
"How long have you had the dog?"
Renee blinked.
"About two years."
"What kind of dog?"
"A Lab.
He stays inside mostly."
Dana looked at the kennel.
Then back at Renee.
"So the dog sleeps inside.
But there's a child's blanket in the outdoor kennel."
"Emily puts her things everywhere.
She's always dragging blankets outside.
I've told her not to."
The neighbor at the fence hadn't moved.
Her name was Carol.
She was seventy-one years old and she had lived next door for nine years.
Her hands were wrapped around the top rail of the fence and she was watching Renee with an expression that had moved past sadness into something quieter and harder.
"She didn't drag it out," Carol said.
"She was put out.
I saw it.
More than once."
Renee turned to face her.
"Carol, you are not part of this conversation."
"No," Carol said.
"But I'm going to be part of the investigation."
She looked at Dana.
"I have photographs.
I started taking them three months ago because I didn't know what else to do.
I have dates.
I have timestamps."
Renee's arms dropped from their fold.
Her hands found the hem of her jacket instead, gripping it.
Dana looked at her partner.
He was already writing.
"Ms.
Renee," Dana said, "we're going to need you to come with us."
"I haven't done anything wrong."
"Then this will be straightforward." Dana stepped toward the back door.
"But first — I need that key."
The locked room.
Whatever was behind it had made Renee hesitate.
In eleven years, Dana had learned that hesitation was never about storage boxes.
May you like
She was going to find out what was in that room.
And she already knew she wasn't going to like it.
