Chapter 4: The House With Yellow Curtains
I didn't call my father.
I didn't call Margaret.
I stood beneath the university's stone archway, rain dripping from the ends of my hair, and read my mother's letter until the paper softened beneath my fingers.
If Daniel fails to protect you, go to the lake house before Rachel does.
Why would my mother have written that?
Why would she connect the lake house to the day she died?
I remembered the yellow curtains, the pancakes, the stars through the bedroom window.
I remembered Mom laughing when I spilled syrup on the kitchen floor.
But I also remembered something else.
The last time we'd visited the house, Mom had spent nearly an hour on the phone behind a closed bedroom door. When she returned, she'd hugged me so tightly that I complained I couldn't breathe.
She'd kissed my forehead.
“Promise me you'll always ask questions when something doesn't feel right.””
I'd laughed.
“Even if it's about you?””
“Especially if it's about me.””
At the time, I'd thought it was a game.
Now I wondered whether she'd been trying to prepare me for something.
I called a rideshare and entered the address from the letter.
The driver pulled up twenty minutes later.
As I climbed into the back seat, my phone rang.
Dad.
I watched his name flash across the screen until the call ended.
A message followed.
*Where are you? We need to talk. Don't go anywhere with Margaret.*
I typed a reply.
*I'm going to the lake house.*
The response came immediately.
*Claire, no. Come home. Please.*
The word please frightened me more than any threat could have.
My father rarely begged.
I called him.
He answered on the first ring.
“Claire, listen to me. You cannot go to that house alone.””
“Why?””
“Because it's not safe.””
“What's not safe about it?””
He exhaled sharply.
“I don't have time to explain.””
“Then make time.””
“Claire—”
“Did Mom die because of something that happened at that house?””
Silence.
I heard traffic on his end. A car horn. The muffled sound of a door closing.
Then he spoke.
“No.””
“Are you sure?””
“Yes.””
“Then why did she leave me a letter telling me to go there?””
His breathing changed.
“You found the letter?””
“Yes.””
“Where?””
“In my handbag.””
Another silence.
When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible.
“Someone must have put it there.””
“Who?””
“I don't know.””
I stared out the window as the city gave way to quieter roads lined with wet trees.
“Dad, I'm going.””
“Claire, please. I made a promise to your mother.””
“You've mentioned that promise three times today. What exactly did you promise her?””
He didn't answer.
“Dad?””
“I promised I'd protect you.””
“From whom?””
His voice broke.
“From everyone who might use you to get what she left behind.””
I closed my eyes.
“Then tell me the truth.””
“I will. I swear to you, I'll tell you everything.””
“When?””
“Tonight.””
“That's what you said this morning.””
He said my name again, but I ended the call.
The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
“Everything okay back there?””
“No,” I said honestly.
“But I'm working on it.””
The lake house appeared through the trees just before sunset.
It looked smaller than I remembered.
The white paint had peeled away from the porch railings, and weeds crowded the stone path. The yellow curtains were still visible behind the front windows, faded almost to cream.
I paid the driver and stepped out.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
This was the last place I'd felt completely safe with my mother.
Now it felt like a room in a house where someone had hidden a body.
I approached the front door.
The brass key Dad had given me didn't fit the lock.
I tried again, turning it slowly.
Nothing.
Then I remembered the letter.
My mother had left the address, but she hadn't said the key would open the front door.
I walked around the side of the house.
A narrow path led toward a small wooden shed behind the kitchen. I remembered it as a place where Mom kept gardening tools and old paint cans.
The door was locked.
I took out the brass key.
It slid into the lock perfectly.
The door opened with a dry creak.
Inside, the air smelled of dust, cedar, and damp wood. A single workbench stood against the back wall, and a metal cabinet sat beneath a small window.
On the workbench lay a photograph of my mother.
She was younger than I remembered, wearing a blue sweater and standing beside a man I didn't recognize.
They were both smiling.
On the back, someone had written:
Elena and Thomas, October 2012. Before the agreement.
I turned the photograph over again.
Thomas.
I had never heard that name associated with my mother.
Beneath the photograph was a small envelope bearing my name.
I opened it.
Inside was a handwritten note.
Claire, if you're reading this, then the people I feared have finally begun searching for what I left behind.
My heart pounded.
The key your father gave you opens more than a bank box. Look beneath the third floorboard from the left.
I read the sentence again.
The third floorboard from the left.
I crouched and examined the wooden floor.
Three boards from the left wall, one plank had a small scratch near its edge. I pressed my fingertips against it, then pulled.
The board lifted.
Beneath it lay a flat metal box.
My hands shook as I dragged it free.
The box had no lock. Inside were several folders, a flash drive, and a sealed envelope marked:
*TO BE OPENED ONLY BY CLAIRE MORGAN.*
I opened the envelope first.
The letter inside was longer than the others.
My dearest Claire,
If you have found this, then I failed to give you the childhood I wanted you to have. I'm sorry.
I swallowed hard.
There are things about my marriage to your father that you were too young to understand. There are things about the people around us that I didn't understand until it was almost too late.
I need you to know that the inheritance is only a small part of what I left you.
The truth is worth more.
I sat on the cold floor and kept reading.
Thomas was my business partner. He helped me establish the trust and secure the properties before I became ill. He knows what happened to the original documents, and he knows why Rachel has been so interested in our finances.
If you find this letter, contact him before you confront anyone.
Do not trust a signature simply because it looks like yours.
Do not trust a confession simply because it sounds like the truth.
And, Claire, whatever you discover about Daniel, remember that fear can make good people do terrible things.
I lowered the letter.
My father had been afraid.
My mother had known it.
But afraid of what?
I opened the first folder.
It contained copies of property deeds, bank statements, and legal documents. The second held photographs of checks made out to a company called Northstar Holdings.
The third contained a report from an insurance investigation dated three weeks after my mother's death.
I scanned the first page.
The report referenced the car accident, the road conditions, and the vehicle's mechanical inspection.
Then I saw a paragraph highlighted in yellow.
The vehicle's braking system showed evidence of a recent failure inconsistent with ordinary wear. The possibility of deliberate interference could not be conclusively established due to damage sustained during the collision.
I stopped breathing.
I read it again.
The brakes.
Someone had suspected that my mother's accident might not have been an accident.
But the report had been closed.
Why?
I reached for the next page.
A signature appeared at the bottom.
Daniel Morgan.
My father's name.
Beside it was a handwritten note.
I accept the findings and request that no further investigation be pursued.
My hands went numb.
My father had signed a document agreeing to end the investigation into my mother's death.
The man who had just promised to protect me had spent nine years keeping this from me.
A sound came from outside.
Gravel crunched beneath tires.
I froze.
Headlights swept across the shed window.
A car door slammed.
Then a familiar voice called from the house.
“Claire?””
Rachel.
I shoved the documents back into the box, but the flash drive slipped from my fingers and skittered across the floor.
I grabbed it and crawled toward the back door.
Rachel's footsteps crossed the porch.
“Claire, sweetheart? I know you're here.””
Her voice was warm.
Almost gentle.
That frightened me more than anger would have.
I slipped behind a stack of old garden chairs as the shed door handle rattled.
“Open the door, Claire.””
I held my breath.
Then she spoke again, no longer pretending to sound kind.
“You have no idea what your mother did to this family.””
The key turned in the lock.
May you like
The door began to open.
And the last thing I saw before the light flooded the shed was Rachel's shadow stretching across the floor toward the hidden metal box.
