The child was alive.
That was the first thing Detective Alvarez told me.
She was approximately eleven years old, severely dehydrated, frightened, and unable to give a clear account of how long she had been underground.
Her name was Lily.
She had been missing for six days.
Her parents had reported her disappearance.
The camp had never admitted she had been there.
Renata listened from her hospital bed.
“Does she know Daniela?”
The detective hesitated.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She says Daniela helped her.”
My daughter covered her mouth.
“What did Daniela do?”
“She gave Lily food.”
“When?”
“While they were both being kept there.”
I felt dizzy.
“Both?”
“Yes.”
“Was Daniela still there?”
“Lily says she was.”
My heart stopped.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
I gripped the edge of the chair.
“Yesterday?”
“Yes.”
Renata looked at me.
“She told me.”
“What?”
“She said Daniela was helping someone.”
The detective's voice became quiet.
“Lily says Daniela was moved.”
“To where?”
“She doesn't know.”
“Who moved her?”
“Two adults.”
“Can she identify them?”
“One.”
“Who?”
Detective Alvarez didn't answer immediately.
Then she said:
“Mrs. Lowell.”
Renata shut her eyes.
The pieces were beginning to fit.
But the second person remained unknown.
Lily was brought to a secure medical facility.
Before she was moved, she told investigators one thing.
Daniela had hidden a notebook.
Not the notebook in the backpack.
Another.
It contained names.
Places.
Dates.
And payments.
I remembered the old records beneath the house.
“What kind of payments?”
“We don't know yet.”
“Money?”
“Looks like it.”
“To whom?”
“Staff.”
I stared at the wall.
“People were paid to keep quiet.”
“That appears to be one possibility.”
The detective's careful wording told me she didn't want to make a conclusion before the evidence supported it.
The search continued.
The officers found a locked drawer in the hidden office.
Inside were envelopes.
Each contained cash.
Each had a name.
Some belonged to current employees.
Some belonged to former staff.
One belonged to a county official.
Another belonged to a doctor.
I felt sick.
“Was Renata's name there?”
“No.”
“Daniela's?”
“No.”
“Lily?”
“No.”
“Then why were they targeted?”
Detective Alvarez looked at the documents.
“We're still trying to answer that.”
Renata interrupted.
“Because they saw the room.”
The detective looked at her.
“That's possible.”
“No.”
Renata's voice was stronger.
“Because they saw the boxes.”
“What was inside?”
“Pictures.”
“Of children?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“People.”
“Adults?”
“Yes.”
“Doing what?”
Renata looked away.
“I don't want to say.”
The detective didn't pressure her.
“That's okay.”
I asked whether we could speak to Lily.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“She needs medical care and rest.”
I understood.
Renata was ten.
Lily was eleven.
Neither should have had to know any of this.
Later that afternoon, Detective Alvarez returned with an update.
They had located Daniela's mother.
Her name was Sofia.
She arrived at the hospital looking as if she hadn't slept in days.
When she saw me, she stopped.
“Are you Gabriela?”
I nodded.
She reached for my hands.
“Your daughter.”
“Yes.”
“She knows Daniela.”
“Yes.”
Sofia closed her eyes.
“Thank God.”
We sat together.
She told me she had known something was wrong three days earlier.
The camp had called her.
They said Daniela had become difficult.
Then they said she had left.
Then they said she was safe.
Then they stopped answering.
“I called the police,” Sofia said.
“They told me the camp had records.”
“Who gave them those records?”
“Beatrice.”
Sofia's hands trembled.
“She showed them a form saying Daniela left voluntarily.”
“Did you sign it?”
“No.”
“Did Daniela?”
“No.”
Detective Alvarez entered.
“We need to compare signatures.”
Sofia pulled an envelope from her purse.
“This came yesterday.”
Inside was a letter.
The handwriting was a child's.
Daniela's.
Sofia had kept it unopened because she had been afraid.
Detective Alvarez examined the envelope.
Then opened it carefully.
The letter was short.
“Mom, if they say I went home, don't believe them. I found where the names are kept. There are other children. Ask about the old house. Ask about the room under the laundry.”
Sofia began crying.
I held her hand.
“There was more,” she said.
“What?”
“A second page.”
She pulled another sheet from the envelope.
This one contained a list.
Names.
Dates.
And initials.
One name was circled.
Beatrice.
Another was underlined.
Mr. Gray.
The final name was unfamiliar.
Thomas Vale.
Detective Alvarez recognized it.
“Who is that?”
Sofia shook her head.
“I don't know.”
Renata, sitting nearby, looked at the paper.
Her face went pale.
“That's him.”
“Who?”
“The man Daniela was afraid of.”
Sofia looked at her.
“Who?”
Renata pointed to the name.
“Thomas.”
Detective Alvarez asked, “Do you know his last name?”
“No.”
“Did Daniela tell you what he did?”
“She said he never came during the day.”
“Why?”
“Because people would see him.”
The detective wrote everything down.
Then her phone rang.
She answered.
Her expression changed.
“What happened?”
A pause.
“Where?”
Another pause.
“Are you sure?”
She hung up.
“What's wrong?”
“They found the second notebook.”
“Where?”
“In the north room.”
“The one they told us not to find?”
“Yes.”
“What's inside?”
“Names.”
“How many?”
“Forty-three.”
My stomach turned.
“Children?”
“Some.”
“And adults?”
“Yes.”
“Thomas Vale?”
“Yes.”
The detective looked at Sofia.
“He's listed as the person responsible for several payments.”
Sofia covered her mouth.
Then Renata whispered:
“He isn't the worst one.”
Everyone turned.
“What do you mean?”
She stared at the floor.
“Daniela told me there was someone above him.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“Did she give you a name?”
Renata nodded.
“Not a name.”
“What?”
“A title.”
Detective Alvarez waited.
Renata whispered:
“The Keeper.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: The Notebook Named a Secretive “Keeper,” While the Police Finally Discovered Why Certain Children Had Been Chosen and Sent Away
The Bus Arrived Late, and One Small Detail Made Me Realize My Daughter Had Come Home Carrying Something No Child Should Have
Part 11 of 27
