CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 4
THE SECOND CHILD
“Daddy?”
The word came through the locked nursery door again.
Soft.
Small.
Terrified.
Victor stood completely still.
I had never seen a grown man look so frightened.
Not when Serena had attacked Ethan.
Not when the recording exposed her.
Not even when Graves told him that he had another child.
This was different.
This was recognition.
Somewhere inside that locked room was a voice that had reached into a part of him he had spent years believing was buried forever.
“Eleanor?” he whispered.
The little girl didn't answer.
Instead, there was another quiet knock.
Three times.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I looked at Graves.
His face had lost all color.
“You heard it too,” I said.
He nodded.
Victor turned toward him.
“Open the door.”
“I can't.”
“Then break it.”
“Sir—”
“Break the door.”
Graves didn't move.
Victor grabbed him by the shoulders.
“My child is in there.”
The old butler stared at him.
“That is not your child.”
Victor froze.
“What?”
Graves looked toward the door.
“That voice belongs to someone else.”
“Then who is she?”
“I don't know.”
“You just said—”
“I said I don't know.”
Victor released him.
Then the crying started again.
This time louder.
A child's sobbing.
My heart twisted.
I moved toward the door.
“Wait,” Graves warned.
I stopped.
“What?”
“Listen.”
We did.
Between the sobs, there was another sound.
A faint metallic clicking.
Like someone turning a lock from the other side.
Victor whispered:
“There's someone in there.”
Graves nodded.
“There shouldn't be.”
Victor stepped backward.
Then he kicked the door.
Once.
Nothing.
Again.
The old wood cracked.
A third kick split the frame.
The door swung inward.
Cold air rushed into the hallway.
The nursery was dark.
The curtains were closed.
Dust covered the floor.
An old wooden crib stood beneath the window.
There was nobody inside.
I felt my stomach drop.
“Where is she?”
Victor entered.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
He turned on the lights.
One flickered.
Then another.
The room looked exactly as it must have twenty years ago.
A rocking horse.
A faded rug.
A bookshelf filled with children's stories.
A mobile hanging above the crib.
And on the wall—
Three framed photographs.
Victor walked toward them.
The first showed Eleanor.
The second showed Victor.
The third showed three babies.
He stopped.
I moved closer.
There were three infants.
Not two.
Three.
One with a white bracelet.
One with a blue bracelet.
One with a pink bracelet.
Underneath the photograph was a handwritten note.
THEY WERE ALL BORN ALIVE.
Victor touched the glass.
“Three.”
Graves whispered:
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“You said the third child was a girl.”
“Yes.”
“Then where is she?”
“I don't know.”
Victor turned.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it's true.”
“You carried one child away.”
“Yes.”
“You watched another remain here.”
“Yes.”
“And the third?”
Graves looked at the photograph.
“I was told she died.”
Victor's voice became cold.
“By whom?”
Graves didn't answer.
“By whom?”
“Your father.”
Victor stared at him.
“You believed him?”
“I had no choice.”
“There is always a choice.”
Graves's eyes filled with shame.
“Not in this house.”
I walked toward the crib.
Something was lying inside.
A small object wrapped in faded cloth.
I reached down.
“Don't touch it,” Graves said.
I froze.
“What is it?”
Graves came closer.
His hands trembled.
“It belonged to Eleanor.”
I slowly lifted the cloth.
Inside was a tiny silver bracelet.
Pink.
Engraved with one letter.
C.
Victor stared.
“Clara.”
Graves nodded.
“The name Eleanor chose.”
I looked at him.
“Then why did you say she was dead?”
“I didn't know.”
“You knew she existed.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn't know where she went.”
“No.”
Victor picked up the bracelet.
His fingers closed around it.
“Then somebody lied.”
Graves looked at him.
“Everyone lied.”
The police arrived twenty minutes later.
They searched the nursery.
There was no child.
No hidden passage.
No sign that anyone had been inside recently.
Except for one thing.
A small wet footprint on the floor.
It was too small to belong to an adult.
The detective crouched beside it.
“When did it rain?”
“It hasn't,” I said.
He looked at me.
“Then where did this come from?”
Nobody answered.
Victor stared at the footprint.
Then at the window.
It was locked from the inside.
The detective stood.
“We'll search the grounds.”
Victor nodded.
As the officers left, Graves quietly approached me.
“There is something you need to know.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
He lowered his voice.
“The nursery wasn't opened tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was opened yesterday.”
My heart stopped.
“By whom?”
“I don't know.”
“You're the butler.”
“Yes.”
“You know everything that happens in this house.”
“Not anymore.”
He looked toward the nursery.
“Someone has been moving through the house without using the doors.”
The next morning, Ethan woke up.
I was sitting beside his hospital bed.
His eyes opened slowly.
“Mommy?”
I leaned forward.
“I'm here.”
He smiled weakly.
“Daddy?”
“He's coming.”
Ethan looked toward the door.
Then whispered:
“Grandma.”
I froze.
“Serena?”
He shook his head.
“Not Grandma Serena.”
“Who?”
He pointed toward the corner.
I looked.
There was nobody there.
Ethan whispered:
“The lady.”
“What lady?”
“The lady with Mommy's face.”
My skin prickled.
“What did she do?”
“She told me not to tell.”
“Tell me what?”
Ethan closed his eyes.
“She said Daddy forgot.”
I touched his forehead.
“What did Daddy forget?”
He opened his eyes.
“The baby.”
Victor arrived minutes later.
I told him everything.
He didn't speak.
He sat beside Ethan.
“Buddy?”
Ethan looked at him.
“Daddy.”
“Did someone talk to you?”
Ethan nodded.
“Who?”
“The lady.”
“What lady?”
“The one in the picture.”
Victor stared at me.
“What picture?”
I remembered the nursery.
The portrait.
The photograph.
The three babies.
“Ethan,” I said gently, “did you see a picture?”
He nodded.
“Three babies.”
Victor's face changed.
“Where?”
“Grandma's room.”
“Which grandma?”
Ethan frowned.
“The dead one.”
Victor stopped breathing.
Ethan reached for him.
“Daddy, she said you promised.”
Victor whispered:
“What did I promise?”
Ethan's eyes filled with tears.
“To find her.”
That afternoon, Victor returned to the manor.
He brought the photograph from the nursery.
He placed it on the desk.
Graves stood opposite him.
“Tell me everything.”
“I have.”
“No.”
Victor tapped the photograph.
“You told me what you remembered.”
“I told you what I knew.”
“Then tell me what you don't want to remember.”
Graves stared at the three infants.
Finally he sat down.
“When Eleanor gave birth, your father was already waiting at the hospital.”
Victor frowned.
“Why?”
“He had arranged everything.”
“What everything?”
“Birth records. Doctors. Nurses. Transport.”
Victor looked horrified.
“He planned to take the children?”
“Yes.”
“All three?”
“No.”
“Which ones?”
“Evan and Clara.”
Victor stared.
“Why leave Ethan?”
“Because Eleanor refused to surrender him.”
“And you helped her?”
“I tried.”
“What happened?”
Graves's voice became quieter.
“Your father entered the room after the birth.”
Victor waited.
“He looked at the three babies.”
“And?”
“He pointed at Ethan.”
“He said, 'That one stays.'”
Victor closed his eyes.
“Why?”
“Because Ethan looked exactly like you.”
“And the others?”
“He called Evan a threat.”
“And Clara?”
Graves looked down.
“He called her insurance.”
Victor's face hardened.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
“You do.”
Graves was silent.
Victor stood.
“Tell me.”
The butler finally whispered:
“Your father believed Clara could be used to control the inheritance if anything happened to the boys.”
Victor stared at him.
“He planned to use his granddaughter?”
“Yes.”
“He was insane.”
“No.”
Graves looked at him.
“He was powerful.”
Victor walked to the window.
Outside, the Blackwood grounds stretched into the distance.
“I want every document.”
“You'll have them.”
“Every photograph.”
“Yes.”
“Every name.”
“Yes.”
“And I want the truth about Evan.”
Graves nodded.
“I know where he may be.”
Victor turned.
“May be?”
“There was one address your father kept returning to.”
“Where?”
“A boarding school in Vermont.”
Victor grabbed his coat.
“We leave today.”
Graves stood.
“I'll come.”
“No.”
The butler stopped.
“You stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because someone is still inside this house.”
Graves looked toward the door.
Victor continued:
“And I don't trust anyone.”
The old man nodded slowly.
“That is wise.”
Before Victor left, he returned to the nursery.
I followed him.
He stood beneath the photograph.
Three babies.
Three bracelets.
Three names.
Ethan.
Evan.
Clara.
He stared at the empty crib.
“I should have known.”
“You didn't know.”
“I was their father.”
“You were lied to.”
“I still should have known.”
I touched his arm.
“Then find them.”
He looked at me.
“All of them.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Then he noticed something on the floor.
A tiny piece of paper.
He picked it up.
It was folded into a square.
Inside was a single sentence.
ONE CHILD WAS HIDDEN FROM THE FATHER.
Victor turned it over.
On the back was another sentence.
ONE CHILD WAS HIDDEN FROM THE FAMILY.
His expression changed.
“There's more.”
I looked at the paper.
A final line appeared beneath the others.
AND ONE CHILD WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO EXIST.
Victor stared at it.
“Clara?”
I shook my head.
“I don't think so.”
“Why?”
“Because Eleanor wrote that there were three.”
He looked at me.
“So who is the fourth?”
Neither of us spoke.
Then a phone rang.
Not Victor's.
Not mine.
From inside the nursery.
We turned.
An old telephone sat on the bedside table.
It hadn't been connected to the house system for decades.
Yet it was ringing.
Victor slowly picked it up.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a man's voice.
Old.
Distorted.
Familiar.
Victor's face drained of color.
“Dad?”
The voice laughed.
“You've been looking for the wrong child.”
Victor gripped the receiver.
“My father is dead.”
“I know.”
“Who are you?”
The voice paused.
Then answered:
“Someone who knows what happened to Eleanor.”
Victor's eyes widened.
“Tell me.”
“You want to know where your second son went?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop looking for him.”
“Why?”
“Because the boy you are searching for isn't the one who should scare you.”
Victor's voice became almost a whisper.
“Then who should scare me?”
The caller answered:
“The child your father was afraid to name.”
The line went dead.
I stared at Victor.
“What did he mean?”
Victor slowly put down the receiver.
Then he looked at the photograph of the three babies.
His eyes stopped on the infant wearing the pink bracelet.
Clara.
“No,” he whispered.
“What?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing.”
But I knew he was lying.
Because when he looked at that photograph, he wasn't looking at a missing daughter.
He was looking at a secret.
A secret he had just realized his father had been terrified would be discovered.
And beneath the photograph, barely visible under the frame, was another inscription.
One that none of us had noticed before.
Victor pulled the frame away from the wall.
There, carved into the wood, were six words:
THE THIRD CHILD KNOWS EVERYTHING.
Victor stared at them.
Then his phone rang.
This time, the caller ID showed a number from Vermont.
He answered.
A man's voice spoke immediately.
“Mr. Blackwood?”
“Yes.”
“You don't know me.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Evan.”
Victor stopped breathing.
The voice continued.
“And if you really are my father…”
A pause.
May you like
“…you need to come alone.”
Then the call ended.
