Chapter 2: The Secret Maya Was Keeping
I didn't breathe until the man's boots moved away from the bed.
Even then, I barely dared to inhale.
The storage box scraped across the floor as he pushed it back into place. He stood, crossed the room, and opened Maya's closet.
“What did you do with it?”” he muttered.
A hanger clattered against the wall.
“Come on, kid. Don't make this harder than it needs to be.””
He was talking to himself, but every word seemed directed at me.
I knew I should crawl out and scream. I should grab the nearest object and hit him with everything I had. I should call the police.
But the thought of Maya stopped me.
He had said she was doing what they told her.
If I exposed myself now, would he hurt her? Would he run? Would someone else be waiting outside?
My mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last.
The man pulled open a drawer.
Then his phone rang.
“Yeah?”” he answered.
He listened.
“No, I haven't found it yet.””
Another pause.
“I know what she said. But if the mother has the original, we're finished.””
My stomach twisted.
What original?
He lowered his voice.
“The girl thinks this is about protecting her mother. She doesn't know what she's really protecting.””
A cold wave washed over me.
He knew Maya was afraid for me.
He knew exactly which fear to use against her.
The man ended the call and walked toward the door.
Before leaving, he turned back to the room.
“Tomorrow, Maya. Don't make me come looking for you.””
The door shut.
I heard his footsteps descend the stairs, followed by the front door closing.
I waited another five minutes.
Then ten.
When I finally crawled out from beneath the bed, my knees nearly gave way. I caught myself against the mattress and stood, fighting the urge to vomit.
The room looked untouched.
The closet door was closed. The drawers were shut. The plastic box sat where it had been.
But on Maya's desk, beside her schoolbooks, lay a small black envelope.
I picked it up.
My name was written across the front.
*RENEE HOLLOWAY.*
The handwriting was unfamiliar, sharp and deliberate.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed me standing outside my office building three days earlier, holding a paper coffee cup. Someone had taken it from across the street.
On the back, six words were written in red ink.
*She is watching you, too.*
My knees weakened.
I grabbed my phone and called the police.
Then I stopped.
What would I tell them? That I had hidden beneath my daughter's bed and overheard a stranger searching her room? That someone had photographed me at work? That my daughter might be involved in something she was too frightened to explain?
I could call the police. I would call them if I believed Maya was in immediate danger.
But first, I needed to know where she was.
I slipped the photograph into my purse and went downstairs.
The house felt different now. Every shadow seemed to conceal someone. Every creak in the floorboards made me turn.
I checked the locks on both doors.
Then I called Mrs. Patterson.
She answered almost immediately.
“Renee? Is everything all right?””
“Did you see a man leave my house this morning?””
A pause.
“Yes.””
I gripped the counter.
“You saw him?””
“Of course I did. I was watering the flowers. He came out just after ten.””
“What did he look like?””
“Tall. Dark jacket. Brown hair, I think. He had a little scar near his chin.””
I closed my eyes.
“Did you see his car?””
“A dark blue sedan. He parked farther down the street, near the fire hydrant.””
“Did you recognize him?””
“No, dear. But he looked familiar somehow.””
“Mrs. Patterson, I need you to do something for me. Please don't mention this conversation to Maya.
And if you see him again, don't approach him. Call me immediately.””
Her voice changed.
“Renee, what is happening?””
“I don't know yet.””
And that was the most frightening part.
I hung up and called Maya's school.
The receptionist transferred me to the attendance office.
“Worcester Central Middle School, attendance. How may I help you?””
“This is Renee Holloway. I'm Maya Holloway's mother. I need to confirm whether she's been attending classes this week.””
“One moment, please.””
I heard typing.
Then silence.
“Ma'am?””
“Yes?””
“According to our records, Maya has been absent for the past six school days.””
The kitchen seemed to tilt.
“Six days?””
“Yes. We have recorded her as absent since last Friday.””
“But she leaves the house every morning.””
“I'm sorry, ma'am. She hasn't checked in at school.””
I gripped the edge of the counter so tightly my fingers hurt.
“Did anyone call me?””
“We attempted to contact you twice. The calls went to voicemail.””
I remembered those calls. I had been in meetings, and the numbers had appeared as unknown. I had assumed they were automated school announcements.
“Thank you,” I managed.
After hanging up, I sat at the kitchen table and stared at the empty chair where Maya usually ate breakfast.
Six days.
For six mornings, I had kissed my daughter goodbye and believed she was walking into school.
For six days, someone had been entering my home.
And for six days, my daughter had been lying to me.
I wanted to be angry. I wanted to march upstairs and demand an explanation.
But when I pictured her face that morning, the way her eyes had followed me to the door, all I could feel was fear.
What had someone threatened her with?
I went to her bedroom and searched carefully, trying not to disturb anything.
Inside a drawer beneath her sweaters, I found a second phone.
It was an old prepaid model with a cracked screen. The battery was nearly dead.
I plugged it into the charger beside her desk.
While it powered up, I searched the closet again.
Behind a row of winter coats, I found a small backpack I had never seen before. Inside were two bottles of water, a flashlight, several granola bars, a folded sweatshirt, and a thick manila envelope.
The envelope contained photocopies of bank statements.
My bank statements.
I flipped through them, confused.
The accounts were old. Some belonged to a joint savings account Daniel and I had closed after our divorce. Others were from an investment account I had inherited from my father.
Someone had circled several transactions in red.
One withdrawal stood out.
$48,500.
I stared at the figure.
I had never withdrawn that amount.
The date was three weeks earlier.
I checked the account number. It was mine.
My hands went cold.
I called my bank.
After answering several security questions, I spoke to a representative who confirmed that a transfer had been initiated from an account linked to my name.
“But I didn't authorize it,” I said.
“According to our records, the transaction was approved online using your credentials.””
“I didn't do it.””
“I understand. I can flag the account for review, but you'll need to speak with our fraud department.””
“Please do that now.””
While I waited on hold, I examined the papers again.
A printed email lay at the bottom of the envelope.
It had been sent from an address I didn't recognize.
The subject line read: *THE ORIGINAL FILE.*
The message contained only one sentence.
If Renee finds the evidence before Friday, move to the contingency plan.
I photographed the email and put everything back exactly as I had found it.
The old phone vibrated.
I nearly dropped it.
A single message appeared on the screen.
*UNKNOWN: Is your mother home?*
Before I could react, another arrived.
*UNKNOWN: Tell her you found the key.*
Then a third.
*UNKNOWN: If she asks about the envelope, deny everything.*
I stared at the screen.
Whoever was texting Maya had no idea I was holding her phone.
My thumbs moved before I could second-guess myself.
Who is this?
The response came almost immediately.
*UNKNOWN: You have five minutes. Get to the usual place.*
I swallowed hard.
I typed again.
Where is the usual place?
This time, the reply took longer.
*UNKNOWN: The old pump house. Don't bring your mother.*
A location I didn't recognize.
I searched the phrase online, then checked a map of the surrounding area. An abandoned municipal pump house stood near a wooded stretch beside the Blackstone River, less than twenty minutes from our home.
I had passed the access road countless times without noticing it.
My phone rang.
Mrs. Patterson.
“Renee, I just remembered something,” she said breathlessly.
“The man who came out of your house this morning—he wasn't a stranger to me.””
“Who was he?””
“I think I saw him at your place two years ago. Right after your divorce. He came with your ex-husband.””
I felt as if the floor had disappeared beneath me.
“My ex-husband?””
“I'm almost certain. I remember Daniel opening the door for him.””
I ended the call and searched my contacts for Daniel.
We had remained civil after the divorce, communicating mostly about Maya and the occasional financial matter. He lived in Connecticut now, nearly two hours away.
I called him.
He answered after three rings.
“Renee?””
“Daniel, I need you to tell me something.””
His voice became cautious.
“What happened?””
“Do you know a tall man with a scar near his chin?””
Silence.
Then, quietly, “Why are you asking me that?””
My heart pounded.
“Because he's been coming into our house while I'm at work. Because Maya has been missing school for six days. Because someone stole money from my account.””
I heard Daniel exhale.
“Renee, listen to me carefully. Don't confront him.””
“Who is he?””
“I'll explain everything.””
“When?””
“Not over the phone.””
I slammed my palm against the table.
“You have ten seconds to start explaining.””
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, “His name is Marcus Vane. And if he's looking for what I think he's looking for, Maya may be the only person who knows where it is.””
“Where what is?””
Daniel's voice dropped to a whisper.
“The evidence that could put me in prison.””
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Then the front door opened.
I heard Maya's footsteps in the hallway.
She froze when she saw me standing beside the kitchen table, holding her second phone.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I placed the phone between us.
“Maya,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could, “I know you haven't been going to school.””
Her face crumpled.
I took a step toward her.
“I know a man has been coming into this house. I know someone threatened me. And I know your father is involved.””
Maya backed toward the door.
“Mom, you don't understand.””
“Then help me understand.””
She shook her head, tears filling her eyes.
“I can't.””
“Why not?””
“Because if I tell you, he'll know I told.””
“Who?””
She looked at the phone on the table.
Then she whispered, “Marcus.””
I reached for her hand.
She pulled away.
“He said he'd hurt you if I told anyone. He showed me pictures of you at work. He knew where you parked. He knew what time you left the office.””
My throat tightened.
“Maya, sweetheart, we can go to the police.””
“No!”” she cried.
The sudden force of her voice startled us both.
She wiped her face with her sleeve.
“Mom, he has something. Something that belongs to Dad. He says if we don't give it to him by tomorrow, you'll both go to prison.””
I stared at her.
“What does he want?””
Maya looked toward the staircase.
Then she reached into the pocket of her sweatshirt and placed a small brass key on the table.
“Dad told me to keep this safe,” she whispered.
“He said it was the only thing that could prove he didn't steal the money.””
She pushed the key toward me.
“But, Mom, there's something else you need to know.””
Her eyes filled with fresh tears.
“The man coming into my room isn't the person I'm most afraid of.””
Before I could ask what she meant, someone knocked on the front door.
Three slow, deliberate knocks.
Maya went white.
Then a man's voice came from the other side.
“Renee? I know you're home.””
May you like
It was Marcus.
And he wasn't alone.
