Chapter 5 - THE GIRL IN ROOM SEVENTEENI didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Rebecca.
Sometimes she was standing beside our childhood porch.
Sometimes she was sitting in the passenger seat of my car.
Sometimes she was trapped behind a locked door, calling my name.
At three seventeen in the morning, I sat upright in bed.
The girl in room seventeen.
The sentence repeated in my mind like a warning.
She did not die.
Could Helen have meant Rebecca?
I wanted desperately to believe it.
But wanting something doesn't make it true.
And I had spent too many years accepting the story I wanted to hear.
This time, I needed evidence.
At seven thirty, Daniel called.
"We have permission to speak with Margaret Cole," he said.
"Today?"
"Yes. A representative of the facility and her independent advocate have agreed to arrange a meeting, provided Margaret wants to participate."
I was already reaching for my shoes.
"How soon can we leave?"
"Thirty minutes."
The drive to Vermont took nearly four hours.
Rain followed us north.
Gray clouds hung low over the highway, and the trees along the roadside glowed red and gold beneath the autumn sky.
I sat in the passenger seat, holding Rebecca's necklace.
Before leaving, I'd collected it from the secure evidence bag Daniel had arranged after photographing and documenting its condition.
The little silver moon was warm against my palm.
I had worn it as a child.
Rebecca stole it constantly.
Our mother used to laugh and say we could share everything except shoes because our feet were different sizes.
I smiled at the memory.
Then the smile vanished.
I wondered how much of Rebecca's final days I'd forgotten.
Had she come to me frightened?
Had I promised to help?
Had I failed her?
Daniel glanced over.
"You're thinking about your sister."
"Yes."
"Tell me something good about her."
I looked toward the rain.
"What?"
"Something that has nothing to do with Blackwood House."
For a moment, I couldn't think of anything.
Then I remembered.
"She hated bananas."
Daniel smiled faintly.
"Bananas?"
"Couldn't stand them. The smell made her gag."
I laughed despite myself.
"When we were kids, our mother packed banana bread in our school lunches. Rebecca traded hers for almost anything."
"Sounds resourceful."
"She once traded an entire lunch for a broken pocket watch because she thought she could fix it."
"Did she?"
"No."
I smiled.
"But she spent three months trying."
Then the tears came.
Not dramatic sobbing.
Just quiet tears sliding down my cheeks while the countryside passed outside the window.
I missed her.
I missed the years we'd never share.
I missed hearing her voice.
And for the first time, I allowed myself to grieve without feeling that I was betraying Jason.
We arrived at the rehabilitation center shortly before noon.
It looked ordinary.
White siding.
Neatly trimmed hedges.
A small fountain near the entrance.
Nothing suggested that a missing witness might have spent years inside.
An administrator named Susan escorted us to a private sitting room.
"Margaret has agreed to speak with you," she explained.
"She understands you're here about events from many years ago."
"How is she?" I asked.
Susan hesitated.
"Her communication is limited, but she's quite aware of who she wants to see."
We entered a sunlit room overlooking a garden.
An elderly woman sat in a wheelchair near the window.
Her dark hair had turned mostly gray.
Her face was thinner than in the wedding photograph.
But I recognized her.
Margaret Cole.
The woman who had watched Rebecca at my wedding.
She looked up.
For a moment, her expression was empty.
Then she saw me.
Her hands began trembling.
"Emily."
The word was faint.
But unmistakable.
I moved closer.
"Margaret?"
She reached toward me.
I took her hand.
Her eyes filled with tears.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
I crouched beside her chair.
"For what?"
She struggled to speak.
"Becca."
My heart stopped.
"Do you know what happened to Rebecca?"
She nodded.
I glanced at Daniel.
He moved a chair closer.
"We can take our time," he told her.
Margaret's gaze remained fixed on me.
"Strong girl," she whispered.
"Rebecca?"
She nodded.
"Wouldn't tell."
"Tell what?"
Her mouth trembled.
"Where."
I leaned closer.
"Where what was?"
"Proof."
My pulse quickened.
"The Blackwood ledger?"
She squeezed my hand.
"Not just... ledger."
Daniel opened his notebook.
"What else, Margaret?"
She closed her eyes.
For several moments, I thought she was exhausted.
Then she whispered something I couldn't understand.
I leaned closer.
"Please?"
"Names."
"What names?"
"Children."
The word hit me like a slap.
Children?
I looked at Daniel.
He appeared equally confused.
"Margaret," he asked gently, "what children?"
Her eyes filled.
"Families."
She struggled for breath.
"Homes."
Suddenly, I remembered something.
Rebecca standing in our kitchen, pointing toward a map.
They're poisoning the neighborhoods.
I gripped Margaret's hand.
"Was Jason's company hiding dangerous building materials?"
She nodded.
"Water."
"Contaminated water?"
Another nod.
"Schools," she whispered.
My stomach turned.
The Blackwood ledger wasn't simply financial evidence.
It documented a scheme affecting people who had bought homes, attended schools, and trusted the buildings Jason's company constructed.
I thought about the annual donations.
The charity galas.
The children Jason posed beside for newspaper photographs.
How many families had suffered while he celebrated himself as a benefactor?
Margaret began coughing.
Susan brought water and allowed her to rest.
When she recovered, I showed her Rebecca's necklace.
Her entire expression changed.
She reached toward it.
"Moon."
"Yes."
She closed her fingers around the pendant.
Then she pointed toward the clasp.
I frowned.
"What?"
She tapped it again.
Daniel leaned closer.
"Is something hidden in the clasp?"
Margaret nodded urgently.
I examined the necklace.
I'd inspected the pendant dozens of times.
I'd found the number seventeen.
But I'd never looked closely at the clasp.
It was a small silver cylinder, heavier than an ordinary fastener.
Daniel asked whether Margaret wanted us to inspect it.
She nodded.
Using a magnifier from his briefcase, he examined the metal.
Then carefully unscrewed one end.
A tiny rolled strip of plastic emerged.
I stared.
Inside was a thin piece of waterproof paper.
The writing was so small we needed Daniel's phone camera to read it.
There were six numbers.
041716
Underneath was a single word.
MOTHER
My breath caught.
April 17, 2016.
The date of Rebecca's death.
Mother.
I stared at Margaret.
"What does it mean?"
She touched my wrist.
"Your... mother."
My mother had died of cancer three years before Rebecca.
I shook my head.
"I don't understand."
Margaret squeezed harder.
"She... knew."
I stared.
"About Jason?"
Margaret nodded.
My mouth went dry.
"Before she died?"
Another nod.
I had always believed my mother liked Jason.
She'd attended our engagement party.
Helped choose flowers for our wedding.
Smiled in photographs.
But now I remembered something strange.
A few weeks before she died, she'd asked me to visit her alone.
We sat in her hospital room.
She took my hand.
"Emily, promise me something."
"Anything, Mom."
"If you ever feel unsafe, don't stay because you think marriage means enduring everything."
I'd laughed nervously.
"Jason and I are fine."
She'd looked so sad.
"Just promise."
I had promised.
Then forgotten.
I pressed my free hand over my mouth.
My mother had seen something.
Maybe she'd been trying to warn me.
Margaret continued.
"Storage."
"Storage?"
"Your mother's... things."
I looked at Daniel.
He was already writing.
The six numbers might be a date.
Or a code.
Or both.
I turned back to Margaret.
"Is there a storage locker?"
She nodded.
"Where?"
She closed her eyes.
Her lips moved.
I leaned closer.
"Margaret?"
Finally, she whispered, "Stamford."
I froze.
My mother had kept a small storage unit in Stamford for years.
After her death, Jason insisted we empty it.
He told me the bills were wasteful.
I remembered signing a cancellation form.
But I hadn't gone with him.
He'd claimed to handle everything.
"What storage company?" Daniel asked.
Margaret shook her head.
She couldn't remember.
Then she gripped my wrist again.
"Room seventeen."
My heart hammered.
"Was Rebecca there?"
Margaret looked at me for a long moment.
Then nodded.
I couldn't breathe.
"Did she survive?"
Tears slipped down Margaret's face.
She nodded again.
I stared.
"What?"
Her voice broke.
"After... car."
"After the accident?"
She nodded.
"She was alive?"
Margaret began crying.
Susan moved closer, concerned.
I forced myself to remain calm.
"Margaret, please. Do you know where Rebecca went?"
She shook her head violently.
"Not Becca."
I froze.
"What?"
"Girl."
I felt the hope drain out of me.
Margaret squeezed my hand.
"Other girl."
My chest tightened.
"Who?"
Her lips trembled.
"Lucy."
Daniel looked up.
"Lucy who?"
Margaret closed her eyes.
"Lucy Hart."
I sat back slowly.
I had never heard the name.
But Daniel had.
He pulled out his phone.
"I've seen that name in the old case files."
"Where?"
He searched.
Then turned the screen toward me.
A scanned witness list appeared.
Under Persons Believed Present at Blackwood Estate were several names.
Emily Mitchell.
Rebecca Hayes.
Margaret Cole.
Helen Foster.
And Lucy Hart.
Beside Lucy's name was a notation.
Age 16. Status unknown.
I stared at the screen.
A sixteen-year-old girl had been held at Blackwood House.
And she'd survived.
Before leaving, we asked Margaret whether she wanted law enforcement to contact her about a formal statement.
She nodded.
Susan agreed to coordinate with her advocate and medical team.
As I stood to go, Margaret held out both hands.
I leaned down.
She whispered, "Your sister saved her."
Tears filled my eyes.
"Rebecca saved Lucy?"
Margaret nodded.
"Brave."
I closed my eyes.
That sounded like Rebecca.
Even frightened.
Even in danger.
She would have tried to save someone else.
I kissed Margaret's forehead.
"Thank you."
She held my hand a moment longer.
Then whispered one final word.
"Greenhouse."
I stopped.
"What about the greenhouse?"
Margaret's eyes widened.
"Burn."
My stomach dropped.
"Jason is going to burn it?"
She nodded frantically.
I turned toward Daniel.
"We have to call the investigators."
He was already dialing.
We hurried outside.
Daniel spoke to a detective assigned to the newly reopened inquiry.
I stood beside the car, watching rain gather on the windshield.
Seconds passed.
Then minutes.
Finally, Daniel lowered his phone.
"The investigators are heading to the property."
"Will they get there in time?"
"I don't know."
My telephone rang.
It was an unfamiliar Connecticut number.
I answered.
"Hello?"
A woman spoke.
"Emily Hayes?"
Hearing my maiden name startled me.
"Yes."
"My name is Lucy Hart."
I nearly dropped the phone.
She continued.
"I know you've been looking for answers about Blackwood House."
I looked at Daniel.
He saw my expression.
"Emily?"
I raised one hand.
Lucy took a shaky breath.
"Your sister saved my life."
I closed my eyes.
"Where are you?"
"Somewhere safe."
"Can we meet?"
"Not yet."
"Why?"
Her voice broke.
"Because the people who hurt us are still watching."
I felt a cold wave of fear.
"Lucy, the authorities are reopening the investigation."
"I know."
"Then please—"
She interrupted.
"Emily, listen carefully."
I stopped speaking.
"Your husband didn't just hurt you because Rebecca found his financial records."
My heart began pounding.
"He hurt you because you saw who killed her."
The world went silent.
I gripped the car door.
"What?"
Lucy whispered, "And the man you saw wasn't Jason."
A car horn sounded somewhere behind me.
I barely heard it.
"Who was it?"
Lucy began crying.
"His father."
Charles Mitchell.
The man who was supposed to be dead.
The man who attended my wedding.
The man whose name appeared on the foundation records.
Lucy whispered one final sentence.
"Emily, there's something else you need to know."
I waited.
May you like
"Rebecca wasn't the first woman Charles killed."
Then the call ended.
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