Chapter 4
The front door’s heavy click echoed through the silent house like a gunshot. Maya and Elena stood frozen in the hallway for several long seconds, listening to the crunch of gravel in the driveway as David’s car engine roared to life and then faded down the suburban street. The tail-lights swept red ribbons across the living room windows before vanishing into the dark.
Elena exhaled a ragged breath, leaning heavily against the wall. "Is he really gone?"
"For now," Maya said, her heart still hammering against her ribs. She looked down the dark hallway toward the ceiling pull-string for the attic. David’s parting words hung in the air like poison smoke. Check the floorboards in the attic crawlspace.
"What did he mean by that?" Elena whispered, hugging her arms tightly across her chest.
"I don't know, but we're going to find out," Maya replied, her voice firm despite the cold dread pooling in her stomach. "Lock the front door, and check on Leo. Make sure he's still asleep."
Maya grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight from the kitchen drawer and strode purposefully to the hallway ceiling hatch. She pulled the cord, and the wooden ladder folded down with a soft, groaning creak. Dust motes danced in the beam of her flashlight as she climbed up into the stifling, timber-scented darkness of the attic.
The attic was a repository of forgotten family history—old cardboard boxes labeled with faded markers, discarded winter coats, and broken chairs. But David hadn't mentioned old boxes. He had specified the crawlspace near the eastern eaves, a low, narrow wooden door that led into the structural rafters above the garage.
Maya crawled across the rough plywood flooring, keeping her weight balanced on the joists. Her knees ached against the splintered wood. Reaching the small wooden door, she twisted the rusty brass latch. It yielded with a sharp snap.
She directed her flashlight beam into the cramped, dusty cavity. Nestled deep in the corner was a heavy metal lockbox, the kind used for important deeds and legal documents. Next to it lay a stack of manila folders, yellowed with age.
May you like
With trembling fingers, Maya reached in and pulled the topmost folder toward her. She brushed a layer of dust off the cover. Stamped across the front in stark, red capital letters was a name she had never heard before: The Elias Project, 1994.
She opened the folder. The first page was an adoption intake form, dated decades before she was even born, bearing a signature that looked chillingly like David’s handwriting, though the date of birth predated his own adult years. Photographs slipped out of the pocket—pictures of a baby with striking blonde hair, wrapped in a blanket identical to the one Leo had clutched as an infant.
