Chapter 3 - The Midnight Search
The hospital room was quiet by 3:00 AM. Jason was resting comfortably, vitals stable, and a nurse had assured me he would sleep through the night. Leaving Laura to watch over him for a few hours, I drove back to our suburban home.
The house was dark, save for the porch light. Inside, it felt different—cold, unfamiliar, stripped of any warmth it had ever pretended to have. Evelyn’s car was parked in the driveway, but when I stepped through the front door, the silence was heavy. She hadn’t packed; she was gone. She must have taken her second car or called a ride service.
I didn’t care about Evelyn right now. My mind was consumed by Laura’s words: the attic room.
I walked past the living room, ignoring the family portraits we had hung together just six months ago—portraits that now looked like stage props from a bad play. I climbed the stairs to the second floor, past Jason’s empty bedroom, and reached the narrow, hidden doorway that led up to the third-floor attic.
The door was locked, just as it always was.
I didn’t bother looking for the key. Adrenaline and rising anger fueled me. I walked down to the kitchen, grabbed a heavy-duty claw hammer and a flathead screwdriver, and marched back up the stairs.
It took three hard strikes against the wood framing near the antique brass knob before the latch gave way with a splintering crack. The door swung open, releasing a stale gust of air mixed with the faint scent of old paper, mothballs, and something metallic, like copper or old pennies.
I flicked the wall switch. A single overhead bulb buzzed to life, casting a harsh, yellow glow over the space.
At first, it looked like a normal storage area. Plastic bins stacked against the slanted walls, old furniture covered in white drop cloths, and several large art easels. But as I walked further in, stepping past the clutter, I noticed something odd.
Against the far wall, behind a towering stack of wardrobe boxes, the wallpaper didn’t align with the rest of the room. It was a newer pattern pasted over an old wooden partition.
I set the hammer down, gripped the edge of the partition panel, and pulled. It came away with a sharp tearing sound, revealing a hidden alcove that didn’t appear on the original architectural blueprints of the house.
Inside the alcove, there was no art equipment. There were no heirlooms.
Instead, a small, collapsible cot sat in the corner. Next to it was a low wooden table covered in empty medicine bottles, plastic syringes, and a small stack of legal documents bound with a thick rubber band.
May you like
My hands shook as I reached for the documents. I flipped open the top folder, and the blood drained entirely from my face.
They weren’t art portfolios or old tax forms. They were adoption records, financial transfer statements, and medical files belonging to a completely different child—a boy named Leo, who had lived in this house three years before I ever met Evelyn.
