THE LITTLE GIRL BEHIND OUR BEDROOM WALL

The woman standing inside the passage was my mother.

But she had been dead for eleven years.

At least, that was what I had been told.

For several seconds, I couldn't move. My mother stood beneath the weak yellow light, clutching an old photograph in one hand. Her gray hair was shorter than I remembered, and there were deep lines around her mouth, but I knew that face.

I had seen it in photographs every Christmas.

I had stood beside her coffin.

I had watched my father lower her ashes into the ground.

"Mom?""

She looked at me, then at the two little girls beside me.

"Ryan, we don't have time.""

Vanessa suddenly stepped forward.

"Margaret, you shouldn't have come here.""

My mother's eyes hardened.

"Neither should you have kept those children in this house.""

Vanessa flinched.

I looked between them.

"What children? What the hell is happening?""

The little girl in the yellow sweater was gripping my hand so tightly that her fingernails pressed into my skin. Lily had buried her face against my hip.

My mother moved closer.

"Ryan, listen carefully. We need to get out before your father reaches this room.""

"My father is dead.""

"No," she whispered.

"He isn't.""

A heavy thud sounded somewhere behind the wall.

The girl in the yellow sweater immediately dropped to her knees.

"No, no, no.""

She crawled toward the narrow opening, trying to squeeze herself behind the wooden panel again.

I caught her gently.

"Hey. What's wrong?""

She shook her head violently.

"He heard us.""

My mother grabbed my shoulder.

"What's her name?""

I looked at the child.

She stared at the floor.

"Sweetheart, what's your name?""

Her lips trembled.

"Emily.""

My stomach tightened.

Emily.

The name had appeared in our family before.

I remembered it from a photograph I had found years ago while cleaning out my father's study. A little girl standing beside a woman in a yellow dress.

When I had asked my father who she was, he had snatched the photograph from my hand.

"Somebody who doesn't matter anymore.""

I had never asked again.

Now the same name was standing in front of me.

"Emily," I repeated.

"How old are you?""

"Six.""

"And who is your mommy?""

She looked toward Vanessa.

Then she whispered something that made my wife cover her mouth.

"Mommy says I'm not allowed to tell.""

Vanessa stepped forward.

"Emily, sweetheart, come here.""

The child recoiled so violently that her shoulder struck the wall.

"Don't!""

Vanessa stopped.

"Please, baby. I won't hurt you.""

"You said that last time.""

The words hung in the air.

I turned toward my wife.

"What does she mean?""

Vanessa's eyes filled.

Before she could answer, my mother pulled a small metal key from her pocket.

"We need to open the other door.""

"What other door?""

She pointed toward the back of the passage.

"Your father's room.""

I stared at her.

"My father didn't have a room in this house.""

"He did. Behind the wall. He's been using it for years.""

I felt something cold move through my chest.

The footsteps came again.

Slow.

Heavy.

Deliberate.

My mother pushed the photograph into my hand.

"Look at the back.""

I turned it over.

There was handwriting in faded blue ink.

Ryan, if you ever find the children, don't trust Vanessa. Don't trust your father. And whatever you do, don't let him take the little one with the birthmark.

I looked at Emily.

The dark crescent beneath her left ear was unmistakable.

Then I looked at Lily.

She had the same mark.

Exactly the same shape.

I crouched in front of both girls.

"Lily, sweetheart, did you know Emily had that mark?""

Lily nodded.

"She showed me.""

"Does she look like you?""

Lily considered the question.

"She's my sister.""

My heart stopped.

Vanessa made a strangled sound.

My mother closed her eyes.

And then Emily said something I would remember for the rest of my life.

"He told me Daddy would come back for us.""

I swallowed.

"Who told you that?""

Emily lifted her eyes.

"Grandpa.""

A door slammed behind us.

My mother grabbed my arm.

"Move!""

We hurried through the passage. Lily clung to my jacket while Emily stayed close enough that I could feel her trembling against my side.

At the end of the narrow corridor stood a steel door.

There was a keypad beside it.

My mother entered four numbers.

The lock clicked.

Inside was a small room with a desk, a filing cabinet, two monitors, and an old leather chair.

The room smelled of cigarette smoke and damp paper.

On the wall hung dozens of photographs.

I recognized myself in several.

Me at twelve, riding my bicycle.

Me at seventeen, leaving school.

Me at twenty-five, standing outside the hospital after Lily's birth.

I stepped closer.

There was even a photograph of Vanessa holding newborn Lily.

Someone had taken it through the hospital window.

"Who took these?""

My mother shut the door.

"Your father.""

Vanessa remained in the doorway.

She looked at the photographs, then at me.

"I didn't know he was watching you.""

I turned.

"How long have you known about this room?""

She didn't answer.

"Vanessa!""

"Three years.""

The room seemed to tilt.

Three years.

Our daughter was four.

I felt sick.

"You've known about this place since Lily was one?""

Vanessa began crying.

"I was trying to protect her.""

"From whom?""

She looked at the photographs.

"From your father.""

My mother pulled open the filing cabinet.

"Ryan, there's something you need to understand. Your father didn't just build a room behind the wall. He built an entire system of passages underneath this house.""

"Why?""

"Because he wanted to keep certain things hidden.""

She removed a thick brown folder.

On its cover was a name.

*THE MORGAN CHILDREN — FAMILY RECORD.*

I opened it.

The first page contained my birth certificate.

The second contained Lily's.

The third contained Emily's.

But Emily's document had something written across the bottom.

Identity suppressed by parental request.

I looked at my mother.