Chapter 4 - The House of Shadows
Aunt Rose’s Victorian house sat on the outskirts of Mill Creek, surrounded by overgrown lilac bushes and a rusted iron fence. It was a house filled with memories of my childhood—smells of cinnamon tea, warm wool blankets, and the soft ticking of grandfather clocks. But stepping inside that afternoon felt like stepping into a tomb.
I unlocked the heavy oak door with the spare key Rose had given me years ago. Julian followed closely behind, keeping a watchful distance, while my mother’s black sedan pulled up onto the curb outside. She didn't come inside; she simply sat in the idling car, watching the front porch like a hawk waiting for its prey.
“She won't leave,” Julian said softly, closing the front door behind us. “She knows whatever Rose left in the attic will destroy her.”
“Why are you suddenly helping me?” I asked sharply, turning to face him in the dim hallway. “You lied to me for five years, Julian! You let me believe my father abandoned me! Every time I cried over him, you held me and said nothing!”
Julian bowed his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I was terrified, Gabby. Eleanor told me that if I spoke a word, she would release those fake documents to the District Attorney. I thought I was protecting our family, our home, our daughter’s college fund. But I was a coward. I’ve hated myself every single day since.”
I took a deep breath, pushing the heartbreak down. “We'll deal with us later. Right now, I need to know what my mother did.”
We climbed the narrow, creaking stairs up to the third-floor attic. The room was dusty, filled with old furniture covered in white sheets. Following Aunt Rose’s instructions, I walked over to the far corner near the stained-glass window.
I pushed aside a heavy brass trunk and saw it: a loose floorboard marked with two small silver tacks.
Julian pulled a pocket knife from his coat and pried the wood plank up. Beneath it lay a dusty steel lockbox. Beside it was a small brass key attached to a handwritten tag: “For the truth.”
My hands trembled as I unlocked the box. Inside was a thick manila folder crammed with documents, bank statements, and a cassette tape labeled “October 14, 2003.”
I pulled out the top document. It was an official police report from the night of my father’s death. But unlike the hit-and-run story Julian had heard, this report contained a detail that made my blood run cold.
The driver of the car that struck Robert Hale was listed as “Unknown - Vehicle fled scene.” But attached to the back of the report was a handwritten statement from a mechanic at a local body shop in Mill Creek.
The statement read: *> “On the morning of October 15, 2003, Eleanor Vance Hale brought in a dark green Sedan with severe front-end damage and a shattered windshield. She paid cash to have the hood repainted and the glass replaced immediately without filing an insurance claim.”
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My breath stopped in my throat. My mother didn't just cover up my father’s death.
She was the one who hit him.
