Chapter 5 - Inside Unit 418
The smell hit us first—stale air, damp cardboard, cheap perfume, and the sour tang of unwashed clothes.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, illuminated only by the harsh sunlight pouring in through the open doorway, the reality of what my children had endured crystallized into horrific clarity.
In the back of the ten-by-twenty-foot unit sat two flattened sleeping bags spread directly over the concrete floor. Piles of gray blankets, stained and rumpled, were heaped in a corner. Next to them stood a plastic folding table covered in empty cans of soup, half-eaten bags of chips, and plastic water bottles filled with cloudy liquid.
There was no bed. No television. No toys, except for a single battered plastic dinosaur belonging to Micah that sat forlornly on top of a plastic storage tote.
Detective Miller stepped inside, his boots crunching on the gritty floor. He clicked on his flashlight, sweeping the beam across the stacks of boxes lining the metal walls.
"Looks like she cleared out most of her personal belongings from the house and dumped them here when the eviction started," Miller muttered, crouching down to inspect a cardboard box. He pulled out a stack of unpaid utility bills, final notices from credit card companies, and bank statements stamped with bright red warnings.
I walked further into the unit, my chest tightening with every breath. On the folding table, beneath a pile of receipts, I spotted Delaney’s leather journal.
Without thinking, I picked it up. The cover was worn, the edges scuffed.
Marcus watched me cautiously from the doorway. "Rowan, be careful. That's evidence."
"I don't care," I muttered, flipping open the cover.
The entries weren't filled with the creative graphic design projects she had claimed to be working on. They were frantic, jagged scrawls written in a downward spiral over the past six months.
January 14: Lost the freelance contract with the advertising agency. Rent is due in five days and Rowan's checks from the business aren't enough to cover my back debt.
February 3: Pawned the DSLR camera today. Couldn't tell the kids. Micah asked why we were eating mac and cheese for the fourth night in a row. I hate this.
March 12: Eviction notice taped to the front door. I can't let Rowan find out. If he finds out, he'll take full custody. He'll use my debts against me in court. I have to keep up appearances until I land the big investor account.
April 2: Moved into the storage unit today. It's temporary. Just until the check clears. The kids think it's an adventure. God forgive me, they actually believe it's a game.
I stopped reading. The book felt like lead in my hands.
Beneath the financial ruin and the desperate, suffocating pride, a darker question loomed larger than the debt: Where was Delaney right now? If she had abandoned them three days ago in that unit, why? Had she simply run out of options and fled, or had something worse happened?
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"Detective Miller," I said, my voice shaking as I held up the journal. "She didn't just leave because she was lazy. She was hiding from me. But three days ago... she stopped coming back."
Miller walked over, taking the journal with a gloved hand and sliding it into an evidence bag. "We trace phones, Rowan. And we check credit card activity. If she's in Nashville—or anywhere in the state—we'll find her."
