Chapter 2 - The Room Beneath the Garage
Daniel arrived at the hospital shortly before midnight wearing the same battered leather jacket he had owned since college and an expression that made him look ten years older than forty-two.
He stood in the doorway for a long second.
Mud still stained the edges of my hairline. IV lines ran into both arms. My legs were wrapped in compression sleeves, and the fetal monitor traced bright green peaks beside the bed.
Daniel’s eyes filled.
“Don’t,” I said.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like I’m already a tragedy.”
His mouth tightened. “I’m looking at you like I should’ve kicked down your door a year ago.”
“That would’ve gone well. Grant would have called the police and told them my unstable brother was threatening us.”
“I am unstable where he’s concerned.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Daniel crossed the room and hugged me carefully.
I had forgotten what it felt like to be held without being evaluated.
When he stepped back, he placed a padded envelope on the bedside table.
“This came to my office three weeks ago.”
The return address was mine.
The handwriting was mine.
I opened the envelope with shaking fingers. Inside lay a small brass key, a photocopy of our property survey, and a note.
IF I DISAPPEAR, OPEN THE ROOM BENEATH THE GARAGE.
The final line was worse.
DON’T TRUST THE FIRST VERSION OF ME YOU FIND.
I read it twice.
“I didn’t write this.”
Daniel watched me. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“It looks exactly like your handwriting.”
“I know.”
A knock interrupted us. Deputy Ortega entered with a woman in a charcoal blazer carrying a slim laptop case.
“Claire, this is Detective Lena Brooks. She handles domestic violence and major crimes.”
Brooks was in her late thirties, with dark curls pulled into a low knot and an expression that did not waste energy pretending things were better than they were.
“I’m sorry we’re meeting this way,” she said. “Can I ask you some questions?”
I nodded.
Daniel started to leave.
“Stay,” I said.
Brooks pulled up a chair. “We recovered your phone. It’s damaged, but the recordings appear intact and automatically backed up to a cloud account.”
Grant did not know about the backup. I had created it under an old email address from college.
“Good.”
“We also recovered two outdoor security cameras from the property.”
My stomach tightened. “Grant controls those.”
“We know. They were disconnected Monday night.”
Of course they were.
Brooks opened a notebook. “Your husband says you asked to participate in what he calls an ‘exposure therapy ritual’ because you believed the ground would calm your anxiety.”
Daniel made a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl.
Brooks continued. “His mother says the same thing. His sister says she was told it was therapy but now believes something improper happened.”
“Mara always discovers morality after the police arrive.”
Brooks’s eyes flicked up. “That may become relevant.”
I told her everything I could remember: Grant dragging me through the kitchen, Evelyn holding the back door, Mara filming for thirty seconds before Grant told her to put the phone away. I told her about the hidden straw, the freezer-bagged phone, the water, insects, hunger, and Grant’s repeated insistence that I admit I had caused my own punishment.
Brooks did not interrupt.
Then I told her about Dr. Simon Vale.
“He started treating me after my miscarriage,” I said. “Grant found him through a wellness foundation. Vale kept saying I had memory distortions. He encouraged Grant to supervise my medication.”
“Did you sign releases allowing Vale to discuss your treatment with your husband?”
“I signed something. Grant put the papers in front of me after I’d taken a sedative.”
Brooks’s expression hardened.
Daniel slid the envelope toward her.
“And there’s this.”
Brooks read the note.
“Did you write it?”
“No.”
“Could Grant imitate your handwriting?”
“He could probably imitate my blood type if he thought it would help him in court.”
Brooks almost smiled.
She studied the property survey. A red circle had been drawn beneath the detached garage.
“Do you have a basement under the garage?”
“Not that I know of.”
Daniel leaned forward. “The garage floor was redone two years ago, right?”
I looked at him.
“How do you know that?”
“You posted pictures before Grant convinced you social media was bad for your anxiety.”
I remembered. New concrete. New cabinets. Grant had called it a surprise renovation.
Brooks stood. “I’m going to request a search warrant expansion.”
“Expansion?” I asked.
“We already have the house and yard based on what happened today. But if there’s a concealed structure, I want it specifically covered.”
After she left, Daniel sat beside me until the nurse dimmed the room.
“Claire,” he said quietly, “there’s something else.”
I looked over.
“The envelope was mailed from your town.”
“So?”
“The postmark was Tuesday, August eighteenth.”
I frowned.
“That was the day Grant took me to Lake Bell for our anniversary.”
“You were gone all day?”
“From before sunrise until after midnight.”
“Then someone else mailed it.”
I stared at the note again.
Don’t trust the first version of me you find.
“What does that even mean?”
Daniel shook his head.
At 2:17 a.m., Detective Brooks returned.
This time she did not knock.
“We found the room,” she said.
Every muscle in my body went still.
“What’s in it?” Daniel asked.
Brooks looked at me, not him.
“A desk. Filing cabinets. Video equipment. Prescription bottles. Copies of medical records.”
My mouth went dry.
“And photographs,” she added.
“What kind of photographs?”
“Mostly you.”
Daniel stood.
Brooks held up a hand. “There’s more. We found a laptop running surveillance software and several external drives. We have not fully processed them.”
I whispered, “Why would Grant have a secret room full of pictures of me?”
Brooks hesitated.
“One wall is covered with timelines.”
“Timelines of what?”
“Your behavior. Your appointments. Arguments. Medications. Who you spoke to. When you slept.”
The baby monitor beeped faster as my pulse climbed.
Daniel swore under his breath.
Brooks placed a clear evidence bag on the table.
Inside was a notebook.
I recognized the faded blue cover immediately.
“That’s mine.”
“When did you last see it?”
“Seven years ago. Before I met Grant.”
The notebook was my college journal.
The one that contained pages of handwriting samples, poems, class notes, and deeply private memories from before my marriage.
Brooks said, “It was open on the desk beside tracing paper.”
I stared at the forged note.
Someone had learned my handwriting from a journal I thought I had lost years before meeting Grant.
“Grant stole it?” Daniel asked.
Brooks’s face tightened.
“We don’t know.”
“Who else had access?”
I thought of dorm rooms, apartments, boxes in my mother’s attic.
Then one memory surfaced.
The last time I had seen the journal was at a counseling center after my father died.
I had brought it to a grief session because the counselor wanted me to read something I had written.
“Who was the counselor?” Brooks asked.
I already knew the answer before I said it.
“Simon Vale.”
Daniel looked at me.
I felt the room tilt.
Dr. Vale had treated me seven years before I ever met Grant.
May you like
Which meant Grant had not found Vale after my miscarriage.
Vale had been there first.
