By the time Arthur and I reached the hospital, the rain had thickened into a gray curtain across the parking lot. I barely remembered leaving the café. I remembered only Arthur's hand gripping the dashboard and the nurse's words repeating in my head.
Someone had come asking for Clara.
A man carrying an old photograph of my father.
The elevator seemed painfully slow. When the doors opened, I stepped into the corridor and immediately saw two police officers near Clara's room. A nurse stood beside them with her arms folded tightly across her chest.
“Where is my wife?”
“She’s inside,” one officer said. “She’s safe.”
I pushed toward the door.
The officer stopped me with one hand.
“Mr. Vega, give us a moment.”
“I need to see her.”
“You will.”
Arthur stepped beside me. “What happened?”
The nurse answered before the officer could.
“The man left when security approached him. He didn't threaten anyone. He simply asked which room belonged to Clara Vega.”
“Did he give a name?” I asked.
“No.”
“What did he look like?”
She described a man in his fifties, medium height, dark coat, gray hair at the temples. Nothing about the description seemed familiar.
Then she added one detail.
“He had an old scar running from his left ear toward his jaw.”
Arthur went completely still.
I turned toward him.
“You know him.”
Arthur didn't answer immediately.
Finally, he said, “His name is Victor Hale.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Arthur's face told me it should.
“Who is he?”
“A man who worked for your mother.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind of work?”
“Whatever she needed.”
The police officer looked at Arthur.
“You're saying he was involved in the property transfers?”
Arthur nodded.
“Among other things.”
I looked through the glass window in Clara's door. She was awake, propped against the pillows. Her eyes found mine.
She looked relieved.
That hurt.
After what I had done, she was still relieved to see me.
I entered.
Clara looked toward Arthur.
“Did you find him?”
“Victor?”
She nodded.
“No,” Arthur said. “He left.”
Clara closed her eyes.
“I knew he would.”
I pulled the chair beside the bed closer, then stopped myself before sitting too near.
“What do you know about him?”
She opened her eyes.
“He came to the house once.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
My pulse quickened.
“Before I knew about your pregnancy?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because he didn't come for you.”
She paused.
“He came for your mother.”
Arthur looked at her sharply.
“What did he say?”
Clara hesitated.
“He asked whether Beatrice had given me anything.”
“Anything like what?”
“A key.”
I thought of the storage room.
The passage.
The black notebook.
The documents.
“No,” I said.
Clara shook her head.
“He didn't believe me.”
“What key?”
“I don't know.”
Arthur stepped closer.
“Did he show you the photograph?”
“Yes.”
“Which photograph?”
She looked at him.
“One of you standing beside a woman.”
Arthur's face drained of color.
I saw it immediately.
“Who was the woman?”
He didn't answer.
Clara did.
“She was holding a baby.”
The room went silent.
Arthur sat down.
His hands began to tremble.
I had never seen my father frightened.
Not like that.
“Who was she?” I asked.
Arthur looked at me.
“Your aunt Evelyn.”
The name landed strangely.
It was familiar only because I had heard my mother mention it once when I was a child.
Evelyn had supposedly run away.
Arthur had supposedly been too young to know where she went.
My mother had always said Evelyn was unstable.
Arthur looked at Clara.
“You found her?”
“I found records.”
“Where?”
“In the house.”
My heart began beating harder.
“What records?”
Clara glanced toward the police officers outside.
“Not here.”
Arthur understood.
We waited until the officers finished asking questions. They took photographs of the corridor and collected security footage.
Before they left, one officer gave me a card.
“If that man returns, call us immediately.”
I promised I would.
Then I returned to Clara.
She was holding a folded piece of paper.
“What's that?”
She handed it to me.
It was a photocopy of a property record.
At the bottom was my mother's handwriting.
The note read:
Ask Arthur what happened to Evelyn.
I looked at my father.
He closed his eyes.
“I didn't know she was alive.”
My fingers tightened around the paper.
“You knew she might be?”
“I knew she disappeared.”
“That's not what I asked.”
He looked at me.
“I suspected your mother knew more than she admitted.”
Clara reached beneath her pillow and removed another envelope.
“This was hidden inside your father's old photograph.”
I opened it.
Inside was a single page.
The handwriting belonged to a woman.
The first line read:
Arthur, if you ever see this, do not trust Beatrice with the children.
I read it twice.
Children.
Not child.
Children.
I looked at Clara.
“What children?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know.”
Arthur took the letter from me.
His face changed as he read.
Then he whispered a name.
“Ella.”
I looked at him.
“Who is Ella?”
“My niece.”
“Evelyn's daughter?”
He nodded.
“There was another child.”
Clara sat up slightly.
“Another?”
Arthur looked at her.
“Evelyn had twins.”
The room seemed to contract around us.
I thought about the documents.
The missing records.
The property transfers.
The warning on the letter.
The photograph of Evelyn holding a baby.
There had been more than one child.
Arthur folded the letter.
“Where did you find this?”
Clara pointed toward the hallway.
“Inside the photograph frame.”
“Why would your mother keep it?”
“Because she didn't know I had seen it.”
I looked at my father.
“You said Evelyn disappeared.”
“She did.”
“And her children?”
Arthur swallowed.
“I don't know.”
The police officer's card felt heavy in my pocket.
I looked at Clara.
“We need to leave this hospital.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Clara—”
“This is the safest place right now.”
Arthur nodded reluctantly.
“She may be right.”
Then the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The corridor went dark.
Someone screamed farther down the hall.
Emergency lights came on.
And from outside Clara's room came the sound of hurried footsteps.
Arthur stood.
“Stay here.”
The door opened.
A security guard rushed in.
“Mr. Vega?”
“Yes?”
“You need to come with me.”
“Why?”
The guard's face was pale.
“We found your mother's car in the staff parking area.”
I stared at him.
“My mother isn't here.”
The guard shook his head.
“She isn't in the car.”
He held up a small plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed my father.
Arthur took one look at it.
Then whispered, “She's found us.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The Photograph in the Evidence Bag Revealed a Family Secret That Connected Clara’s Pregnancy to a Disappearance Nobody Had Ever Explained
The Locked Door Was Supposed to Teach My Wife a Lesson, Until Morning Exposed What I Had Refused to See
Part 5 of 28
