Chapter 9 - Elena’s Missing Box
Marcus searched the house for three hours.
The box was nowhere.
Maya found him sitting on the closet floor.
“What are you looking for?”
“Something that belonged to your mom.”
She stepped inside.
“The blue box?”
Marcus looked up sharply.
“You know it?”
“Camille took it.”
His pulse jumped.
“When?”
“A long time ago.”
“Where?”
“She put it in her car.”
Marcus controlled his voice.
“Did she tell you why?”
“She said the house had too much dead-person stuff.”
Marcus closed his eyes.
Maya immediately looked frightened.
“Was I not supposed to tell?”
“No. You did exactly right.”
He called Rachel.
“Does the box contain important documents?”
“Yes.”
“Make a list of everything you remember.”
Among the papers was a letter Elena had written shortly before her death.
It had no legal power.
But Marcus remembered every sentence.
She asked him to make sure Maya always knew she belonged.
Never let grief make her feel like a guest in her own life.
Marcus had failed that request in the most literal possible way.
The next morning, CPS caseworker Evelyn Shaw arrived.
She photographed the pantry hasp.
Reviewed the notes.
Spoke separately with Marcus.
Then with Maya.
Marcus waited in the family room while Maya talked privately with Ms. Shaw at the kitchen table.
Forty minutes felt like four hours.
Afterward, Ms. Shaw told Marcus little.
“I can’t discuss every detail of Maya’s interview.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s been carrying a lot.”
Marcus looked through the doorway.
Maya was drawing.
“Did she say anything I need to know immediately?”
Ms. Shaw chose her words carefully.
“She described food restriction, extended isolation in her bedroom, and being repeatedly told that you would send her away if she complained.”
Marcus gripped the arm of his chair.
“Isolation?”
“She says she was sometimes required to remain in her room for hours.”
“How long?”
“She has difficulty estimating time.”
Of course.
She was eight.
“She also described being made to write apology letters for things she says she did not do.”
Marcus remembered seeing handwritten notes on Camille’s dresser.
I am sorry I lied.
I am sorry I am ungrateful.
Camille had once shown one to him.
“See?” she had said. “She understands what she did.”
Marcus had accepted it as evidence.
Now it looked different.
“When can I talk to Camille?” he asked.
“You can make your own choices as an adult, but I would strongly recommend you allow the investigation to proceed rather than conducting your own confrontation.”
Marcus nodded.
Ms. Shaw packed her papers.
At the door she paused.
“One thing, Mr. Reed.”
“Yes?”
“Maya repeatedly said something important.”
Marcus waited.
“She said she stopped trying to tell you because every time she did, something got worse afterward.”
The sentence followed Marcus all day.
Something got worse.
How had Camille known whenever Maya tried?
Then Marcus remembered the tablet.
When he traveled, most calls with Maya happened on the family iPad.
Camille controlled it.
Marcus opened the device settings.
Parental monitoring software had been installed.
Not standard parental controls.
A commercial monitoring application.
It recorded app activity.
Messages.
Call logs.
Even certain microphone events.
Marcus searched the subscription email.
Camille had purchased it eleven months earlier.
She could see when Maya messaged Marcus.
She could see deleted drafts.
She could know exactly when Maya tried to reach him.
Marcus scrolled through stored logs.
One draft message had never been sent.
Maya had typed:
Dad Camille won’t let me eat dinner because I said I miss Mom. Please come home.
The draft was deleted forty-six seconds later.
Marcus stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Then he saw the next log entry.
Camille’s account had accessed the tablet.
One minute after Maya typed the message.
May you like
Something got worse afterward.
Now Marcus knew how.
