Chapter 2 - THE PURPLE BAG
The drive back to my old farmhouse on the outskirts of Savannah was wrapped in a suffocating silence. Rain began to patter against the windshield of my rusted blue pickup truck, each drop echoing like a ticking clock in the quiet cab. In the backseat, Rachel held April against her side, rocking her gently as the six-year-old’s eyelids fluttered with exhaustion. Lucy sat in the front passenger seat next to me, her body rigid, staring straight ahead into the gray afternoon light.
Her hands rested firmly on her lap, holding the purple velvet draw-string bag that Rose had sewn for her years ago. It was a simple item, meant for hair ribbons or small trinkets, but Lucy gripped it like a shield.
“We’re almost home, sweethearts,” I whispered, my voice sounding cracked and unfamiliar to my own ears. The weight of my daughter's passing sat heavy on my chest, a physical ache that threatened to pull me under. But every time I looked at the three girls, a cold, protective fire reignited in my blood.
When we pulled into the gravel driveway, the familiar silhouette of the farmhouse offered a momentary breath of comfort. It was the house Rose had grown up in—a place filled with memories of her laughter, her messy watercolor paintings, and the sweet smell of peach cobbler baking in the summer.
I helped the younger girls out of the truck and led them inside. After guiding Rachel and April up to the guest bedroom, tucking them beneath warm quilts, I came back down to the kitchen. Lucy was sitting at the wooden dining table. The purple bag sat open in front of her.
“Grandpa Charles,” Lucy said quietly, her voice steady beyond her twelve years. “Mom told me that if anything ever happened to her, I had to give this to you. But only when Arthur showed who he really was.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “You knew this was coming?”
Lucy nodded slowly. “Mom was sick, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew Arthur didn’t love her anymore. She knew about Evelyn—the woman in the white van—months before the doctors gave Mom her diagnosis.”
She reached into the bag and pulled out a worn leather journal with silver embossing on the spine. Alongside it lay a small digital voice recorder and a thick, heavy cream-colored envelope sealed with red wax.
“Mom kept notes,” Lucy explained, her eyes filling with unshed tears for the first time all day. “Arthur thought she was just writing poetry. He called her stupid and paranoid. But Mom was writing down dates, bank accounts, and conversations. And when she got too weak to write, she asked me to press ‘record’ on her little black device whenever Arthur came into the bedroom to yell at her.”
I sat down heavily in the chair opposite her. "Arthur yelled at her while she was ill?"
"He didn't just yell, Grandpa," Lucy whispered, her knuckles turning white. "He told her he couldn't wait for her to die so he could take her inheritance and buy Evelyn a mansion in Atlanta. He thought no one was listening."
May you like
I reached out and laid my hand over hers, feeling the tremble she had been hiding all afternoon. "Lucy, you and your sisters are safe now. I swear on my life, he will never touch a single hair on your heads again."
"I know," Lucy said, looking up at me with Rose’s deep hazel eyes. "But Mom said we shouldn't just run away. She said we had to make sure he couldn't hurt anyone else."
