Chapter 13 - The Locked Basement Door
Dad’s basement had a workshop, storage room, and laundry area.
No “room” Lily should know about.
She pointed to the far wall.
“Grandma Karen took boxes there.”
Behind shelves of paint cans was a narrow door.
Locked.
Dad stared.
“I don’t have a key.”
Susan called police before we touched anything.
Inside was a small office.
Desk.
Printer.
Scanner.
Blank check stock.
Notary seals.
Copies of driver’s licenses.
Bank statements.
Property records.
Dozens.
Dad sat on the basement steps.
“This was in my house.”
On the desk was a list.
Names.
Ages.
Property values.
Marital status.
Adult children.
Dad’s entry read:
Richard Collins, 67.
Widower.
House paid off.
Son visits weekly.
Daughter nearby.
High interference risk.
My name was highlighted.
Next to it:
I could not speak.
Dad read it.
His face went blank.
Then he turned away.
I had seen anger in him.
This was different.
This was shame becoming fury.
Karen’s online post had not been emotional.
It had been planned.
Susan whispered, “This may connect multiple cases.”
One photograph showed an elderly man named Frank Jensen.
Dad knew him.
“Golf league.”
Police checked.
Frank had recently transferred his home into a trust controlled by his second wife’s nephew.
The pattern widened.
Lily’s.
Every one she had made at Dad’s house during the last year.
On the back of one, Karen had written:
Dad started crying.
Not quietly.
I sat beside him.
“I’m sorry.”
He looked at me.
“For what?”
“For not taking Lily seriously sooner.”
He shook his head.
“We both missed things.”
“No.”
He looked at the room.
“I lived above this.”
Police took everything.
Before they left, the detective said, “Mr. Collins, we may need you to identify other victims.”
Dad nodded.
Then I noticed one photo still on the floor beneath the desk.
A woman in her seventies.
I recognized her.
Brenda Keller.
Lily’s kindergarten teacher’s grandmother.
May you like
She had died six months earlier.
And Karen had attended the funeral.
