Chapter 2 - The Door Under the Stairs
The urgent-care doctor examined Sophie while Sarah sat beside the bed holding both of her hands. No broken bones. No signs of a serious head injury. A bruised cheek, a painful wrist, and a child who kept apologizing for ruining her own birthday.
"You didn't ruin anything," Sarah said for the fifth time. "An adult made a bad choice. That belongs to her, not you."
Mark was filling out the medical paperwork when his phone lit up.
CLARA: Tell that little liar to give back my key. I'm done being nice.
He showed the message to the deputy who had come to document the assault. The deputy photographed Sophie's injuries, recorded the guests' names, and advised Mark not to confront his sister again. Whether charges were filed would depend on the investigation. Mark wanted answers immediately. He also wanted to go home and never let Clara through the door again.
Back in the exam room, Sophie asked for her stuffed rabbit.
"We'll get him," Mark promised. "But can you tell us where you found the key?"
"In the study." She watched the floor. "Aunt Clara had your laptop open. She was talking to a man on the phone."
"What man?"
"She called him Mr. Pierce. She said, 'The papers are done. The house is covered.'"
Sarah looked at Mark. Nolan Pierce had repaired their back porch the previous fall. Clara had recommended him. Mark had never liked his habit of asking questions about their property taxes.
"What happened after that?" Sarah asked.
"She saw me. She said I was spying. I ran out with the key because she dropped it. She grabbed my arm at the birthday party and told me to give it back." Sophie's eyes filled. "I said I wanted Daddy."
Mark stared at the wall. He had spent years explaining away Clara's temper as a difficult childhood, a bad divorce, or another rough month. Those excuses had just landed on his child's face.
When they got home, police had already cleared the scene and Clara was gone. Mark locked the doors, checked the alarm, and opened the narrow storage space beneath the basement stairs. Three shelves of paint cans stood beside an old steel cabinet inherited from his mother.
On the cabinet's lowest drawer was a brass plate: 3.
The red key fit perfectly.
Inside lay a blue folder, an unfamiliar bank statement, and a notice with their home address at the top.
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The notice said their house had secured a $420,000 loan.
Neither Mark nor Sarah had borrowed a penny.
