CHAPTER 2 THE NOTEBOOK WITH MY NAME
Detective Brooks would not let me touch the notebook.
It was evidence, she explained. It had been photographed, fingerprinted, and sent for examination. She could only show me selected pages after investigators confirmed they would not compromise the case.
Two days passed before she returned.
Those forty-eight hours were filled with doctors, pain medication, police questions, and the constant fear that I would never see from my left eye again.
Wyatt barely left my room.
He helped me drink water when my hands shook. He spoke with surgeons when medication made it difficult for me to understand. When nurses removed the first layer of bandages, he did not flinch.
I did.
The left side of my face was purple and swollen. Metal plates held the fractured bones in place. A jagged line of stitches ran from my eyebrow toward my temple.
I stared into the bathroom mirror until my stomach turned.
My mother’s words returned immediately.
Let’s see if Wyatt still loves you with that face.
I covered the mirror with a towel.
Wyatt found me sitting on the edge of the bed.
He knelt in front of me.
“Look at me.”
“I can’t.”
“Sadie.”
“She did this because she knew exactly where to hurt me.”
“No. She said it because she wanted you to believe love has conditions.”
I stared at the floor.
“What if the damage is permanent?”
“Then it’s permanent.”
“You say that now.”
“I’ll say it tomorrow. I’ll say it in ten years.”
I finally looked at him.
He touched my hand, not my face.
“I didn’t fall in love with your cheekbones,” he said. “I fell in love with the woman who stopped on a highway in a thunderstorm to move a turtle out of traffic. I fell in love with the woman who secretly paid her coworker’s rent when her husband died. I fell in love with the woman who laughs too loudly during bad movies and cries when old people dance at weddings.”
Despite the pain, a broken laugh escaped me.
“You hated that movie.”
“It was terrible.”
“You cried too.”
“My allergies were acting up.”
That was when Detective Brooks arrived.
Her expression told me the news was serious.
Wyatt stood.
“Did you find Arthur?”
“No.”
“Did Melanie take him?” I asked.
“We don’t know. But we found blood in the locked basement room. Preliminary testing indicates it belongs to Arthur Bell.”
I pulled the blanket tighter around myself.
“How much blood?”
“Not enough to confirm a fatal injury.”
That answer was supposed to comfort me.
It did not.
Detective Brooks placed copies of three notebook pages on the table.
“The handwriting appears consistent throughout. We’re still verifying authenticity.”
The first page was dated nearly five months earlier.
Brenda came today. She brought Gregory. They want me to sign the papers. I refused. They think I am confused, but I remember everything.
The next entry read:
Melanie knows about the trust. She says Sadie does not deserve it because Sadie abandoned the family. That is a lie. Sadie does not even know I exist.
I looked up.
“What trust?”
“We’re investigating.”
The third page was written in shakier handwriting.
If they take me, I must find a way to warn Sadie. She is Evelyn’s daughter. Brenda has lied to her since birth.
The words stopped making sense.
“Who is Evelyn?”
Detective Brooks watched my face carefully.
“We hoped you might know.”
“I don’t.”
Wyatt picked up the page.
“It says Sadie is Evelyn’s daughter.”
“My mother is Brenda.”
Detective Brooks said nothing.
A pressure began building inside my chest.
“My birth certificate says Brenda Davis.”
“Birth certificates can be amended.”
“No.”
“Sadie—”
“No. My mother is cruel, but she is my mother.”
I heard how desperate I sounded.
Detective Brooks continued gently.
“We searched public records for Arthur Bell. He had one sister, Margaret Bell. Margaret had two daughters.”
“Brenda?”
“Brenda Bell Davis and Evelyn Bell.”
The room became silent.
“My mother had a sister?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
“Evelyn died twenty-nine years ago.”
I was twenty-eight.
The number settled between us like a blade.
“How did she die?”
“According to the death certificate, complications following childbirth.”
My mouth went dry.
Wyatt sat beside me.
Detective Brooks handed me another document.
It was a faded photograph recovered from Arthur’s room at the assisted-living facility.
Two young women stood beside a lake.
One was my mother, unmistakably younger but wearing the same tight smile.
The other woman had dark hair, a soft expression, and a small crescent-shaped birthmark near her collarbone.
I had the same birthmark.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written:
Brenda and Evelyn. Summer before everything changed.
“My whole life…” I whispered.
Wyatt took my hand.
“Arthur may be wrong,” he said.
“He wrote that I’m Evelyn’s daughter.”
“We still need proof.”
Detective Brooks nodded.
“We requested sealed adoption and hospital records. We’re also trying to locate anyone who knew Evelyn at the time.”
“Why would Brenda raise me if I wasn’t hers?”
“That is one of many questions.”
I thought about my childhood.
Melanie had always been introduced as my mother’s miracle baby.
My parents celebrated every one of her accomplishments. They photographed every birthday, every recital, every school award.
There were almost no baby pictures of me.
When I asked, my mother said the camera had broken.
My father never called me his princess the way he called Melanie.
When relatives said I did not resemble my mother, Brenda would grip my shoulder and answer, “She takes after Gregory’s side.”
I had believed her because children believe the people who feed them.
Even when those people starve them of love.
Detective Brooks gathered the papers.
“There’s another issue. Your parents hired an attorney. They claim the brick struck you accidentally during a confrontation initiated by Wyatt.”
“That’s a lie.”
“The utility worker contradicts them. So does the 911 recording.”
“What does Melanie say?”
“She contacted the police through an attorney. She claims she left because she was frightened of Wyatt.”
Wyatt laughed bitterly.
“She watched her father crush Sadie’s face.”
“They’re building a joint defense,” Detective Brooks said. “They’ll try to create doubt about intent.”
My pulse quickened.
“My mother laughed.”
“We need to prove as much as possible.”
“I’ll testify.”
“When the time comes.”
She moved toward the door, then stopped.
“One more thing. We examined the medication bottles found in Arthur’s room. Some contained sedatives prescribed to your father.”
“Why would they drug Arthur?”
“Possibly to make him easier to control.”
“Control him for what?”
“The notebook repeatedly refers to property, a trust, and a company called Bell Heritage Holdings.”
Wyatt stiffened.
“I’ve heard of it.”
I turned toward him.
“What is it?”
“A private real-estate holding company. Mostly commercial land around Columbus and Dayton.”
“How much is it worth?”
“I don’t know. A lot.”
Detective Brooks answered.
“Our preliminary estimate is more than forty million dollars.”
I stared at her.
The monitor beside my bed accelerated.
She continued.
“Arthur Bell held controlling authority. According to recent filings, someone attempted to transfer that control four months ago.”
“The same time he disappeared,” Wyatt said.
Detective Brooks nodded.
“The transfer documents were notarized by Gregory Davis.”
My father had been a notary for nearly twenty years.
“Did Arthur sign them?”
“That is under investigation.”
After the detective left, I lay back against the pillows, exhausted.
Wyatt stared at the photograph of Evelyn.
“She looks like you.”
I closed my right eye.
“Maybe that’s why Brenda hated me.”
Later that evening, Wyatt went downstairs to speak with my surgeon.
I was alone when the hospital phone rang.
I assumed it was a nurse.
“Hello?”
At first, there was only breathing.
Then a man whispered.
“Sadie?”
My body went rigid.
“Who is this?”
“Arthur.”
I sat upright so quickly pain ripped through my face.
“Where are you?”
“I don’t have much time.”
“Are you hurt?”
“They found the notebook, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Then Brenda knows you know.”
“Tell me where you are.”
“I can’t. Not yet.”
“Are you my mother’s uncle?”
Arthur began to cry.
“No, child.”
The words came through broken breaths.
“I am your grandfather.”
A door slammed somewhere on his end of the call.
Arthur inhaled sharply.
“They’re coming.”
“Who?”
“Do not trust the family lawyer,” he whispered. “And do not let Melanie find the key.”
“What key?”
May you like
“The one Evelyn left inside the blue house.”
The line went dead.
