Chapter 2 - The Secret Under the Floorboards
The drive back from the cemetery was engulfed in a suffocating silence. The Savannah rain began to tap against the windshield of my old Volvo, mimicking the tears my granddaughters refused to cry. In the rearview mirror, I watched them. Six-year-old April had cried herself to sleep, her small head resting on nine-year-old Rachel’s lap. Rachel was staring blankly out the window, her finger tracing the raindrops on the glass.
But it was twelve-year-old Lucy who held my attention. She sat rigid, her arms wrapped tightly around the leather-bound photo album of her mother, Rose. Her eyes weren't red. They were sharp, focused, and carrying a heavy maturity that no child should possess.
When we arrived at my modest craftsman home on the outskirts of the city, I carried April inside and laid her on the guest bed. Rachel followed silently, clutching a worn-out stuffed rabbit.
"Lucy," I said softly, walking into the living room where the eldest stood by the fireplace. "You don't have to carry this all by yourself. I'm here. We are going to get through this. I promise you, Arthur will never take you away."
Lucy turned to face me. The anger in her eyes was cold, calculated. "He can’t take us, Grandpa. Not because he doesn't want us... but because we are going to ruin him."
My heart skipped a beat. "Lucy, what are you talking about?"
Instead of answering, Lucy reached into her small backpack. She didn’t pull out a toy or a schoolbook. She pulled out a small, tarnished brass key and a USB drive.
"Mom knew she was dying," Lucy whispered, her voice finally trembling. "She knew the 'illness' wasn't just a random sickness. And she knew what Arthur and that woman, Chloe, were doing behind her back. She hid her secrets where Arthur could never find them. But she showed me."
"What did she hide, sweetheart?" I asked, kneeling to her eye level.
"Under the floorboards in our old playhouse in the backyard," Lucy said, her grip tightening on the key. "Arthur never went near it. He hated the dirt. Inside is Mom’s real diary. Not the fake one she left on her nightstand for him to find. The real one. And a voice recorder."
I felt a chill run down my spine. Rose had been sick for over a year with a mysterious autoimmune decline that the doctors couldn't quite pinpoint. Arthur had insisted on managing her medication. He had locked her away in that pristine, soulless mansion of theirs, limiting her visits with me under the guise of "resting."
"We have to go get it," Lucy said, her eyes burning. "Before Arthur sells the house. He already put up the 'For Sale' sign this morning, Grandpa. Before the funeral even started."
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An overwhelming wave of protective fury washed over me. Arthur hadn't just abandoned his children at their mother's grave; he was actively erasing every trace of my daughter’s existence for a paycheck and a fresh start.
"We go tonight," I said.
