Chapter 2: The Woman in the Photograph
I didn't sleep that night.
At two in the morning, I sat on the edge of my childhood bed with my mother's necklace resting on a folded towel beside me. Rain tapped against the window, and the old house creaked in the wind.
I turned the pendant over beneath my bedside lamp.
Three numbers.
317.
I tried opening the tiny seam with my fingernail, but the gold didn't budge. Whatever mechanism held it together was too delicate to force.
At three fifteen, I gave up and went downstairs.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and lemon cleaner. Vanessa had always cleaned when she was angry, and the countertops gleamed beneath the overhead lights.
I found my father at the table.
Richard looked older than he had a week ago. His hair had gone almost completely gray, and the hand wrapped around his mug trembled slightly.
A stack of unopened mail sat beside him.
When he saw me, he looked toward the staircase.
"Couldn't sleep?""
"Neither could you.""
He gave me a tired smile.
"Old age.""
"Dad, do you remember Mom's necklace?""
His hand stopped moving.
I placed it on the table between us.
For several seconds, he didn't touch it.
Then he leaned forward.
"Where did you get this?""
"Brielle was selling it in the garage.""
He closed his eyes.
"Good Lord.""
"She put a ten-dollar price tag on it.""
My father rubbed his forehead.
"Your sister doesn't think before she acts.""
"That's not what I'm asking.""
He looked at the necklace again.
"What do you want to know?""
"Why did Mom never take it off? Why did you tell me the hospital kept it after she died? And what does 317 mean?""
His face lost its color.
I watched him reach for the chain, then pull his hand back before touching it.
"Where did you see those numbers?""
"On the pendant.""
He stood so quickly that his chair scraped across the floor.
"Clara, I need you to listen to me.""
"Okay.""
"Don't show that necklace to Vanessa.""
The words came out so quietly that I almost missed them.
I stared at him.
"Why?""
He glanced toward the hallway.
"Because I don't know what she might do.""
A chill crept along my arms.
"Dad, what is going on?""
Before he could answer, footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Vanessa entered the kitchen in a silk robe, her hair perfectly arranged despite the hour. She stopped when she saw the necklace on the table.
Then she looked at my father.
"What is that doing here?""
Richard moved between us.
"Clara wanted to ask me about Eleanor.""
Vanessa's mouth tightened.
"At three in the morning?""
"Yes.""
She approached the table and reached for the chain.
I grabbed it first.
Her fingers closed around empty air.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then she smiled.
It was the same smile she'd worn at the garage sale, except now there was nothing pleasant behind it.
"You're becoming obsessed, Clara.""
"I'm asking questions.""
"About a dead woman.""
"About my mother.""
Vanessa looked at Richard.
"Are you going to let her do this?""
My father didn't answer.
She folded her arms.
"Fine. Let's have the conversation. Eleanor collected jewelry, photographs, papers, and enough sentimental junk to fill three storage units. She died.
We inherited the house. Now we're cleaning it out. There is no conspiracy.""
"Then why did Dad tell me not to show you the necklace?""
For the first time, Vanessa appeared genuinely startled.
She turned to him.
"You said what?""
Richard's face hardened.
"I said she should keep it safe.""
"No," I said.
"You said not to show it to you.""
The kitchen fell silent.
Vanessa looked at the necklace again, and I saw something that didn't belong on her face.
Fear.
It vanished almost immediately.
"You misunderstood him," she said.
"I don't think I did.""
She stepped closer.
"Give me the necklace, Clara.""
"No.""
Her hand struck the table.
The coffee in Richard's mug jumped over the rim.
"That is enough!"" Vanessa snapped.
"You have no idea what you're interfering with.""
My father stood.
"Vanessa.""
She turned on him.
"What? Are we going to pretend this is normal? She appears in the middle of the night waving Eleanor's jewelry around and demanding answers.""
"She's our daughter," he said.
"And I am your wife!""
The words echoed through the kitchen.
Richard stared at her.
Then, very quietly, he said, "I know.""
Something passed between them that I couldn't understand.
It wasn't anger alone.
It was the look of two people who had spent years keeping a secret and had just realized the secret might be slipping away.
Vanessa picked up her coffee.
"I'm going back to bed. This conversation is over.""
She paused beside me.
"If you care about your father, Clara, you'll stop digging through the past.""
Then she left.
I waited until her footsteps disappeared upstairs.
"What was that?"" I whispered.
My father sank into his chair.
For a long time, he stared at the empty place where Vanessa had stood.
Finally, he said, "Your mother was afraid of her.""
I felt the room tilt.
"Afraid of Vanessa?""
"Not at first.""
He opened one of the kitchen drawers and removed a small brass key. It was old, with a rounded head and a number stamped into the metal.
317.
He placed it beside the necklace.
"Your mother gave me this a few weeks before she died.""
I picked it up.
"What's it for?""
"She told me that if anything happened to her, I was supposed to keep it somewhere safe. She said the number would matter when the time came.""
"And you never told me?""
"You were thirteen.""
"I'm thirty now, Dad.""
His eyes filled with tears.
"I know.""
He looked toward the ceiling.
"After your mother died, I couldn't bear to look at anything she owned. Vanessa helped me handle the arrangements. She helped with the house, the bills, the insurance. I was barely functioning.""
"And the key?""
"I hid it.""
"Where?""
He pointed toward the pantry.
"Inside the old flour tin. I moved it twice after that.""
I followed him into the pantry.
The tin was still there, dented along one side and dusted with flour. Inside lay a bundle of faded recipes, a packet of birthday candles, and a folded envelope sealed with yellowed tape.
My father's name was written across the front in my mother's handwriting.
Richard.
He took the envelope with shaking fingers.
"I've never opened this.""
I stared at him.
"Why not?""
"Because Eleanor made me promise to wait until I had a reason to believe the truth was in danger.""
He looked down at the necklace in my hand.
"I think that reason is standing in front of me.""
He broke the seal.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded into quarters. My mother had written only a few lines.
Richard,
If Clara ever comes to you with the necklace, do not send her away.
The pendant and the key belong together.
The truth is in Box 317.
Trust Lorraine. Trust no one who insists the past should remain buried.
If anything happens to me, Lorraine knows the truth.
My throat tightened.
"Who is Lorraine?""
My father sat down on the pantry stool as though his legs had given way.
"I haven't heard that name in fifteen years.""
"Who is she?""
He looked at me, and for the first time since Mom's death, I saw something in his face that wasn't grief.
It was guilt.
"Lorraine was your mother's best friend," he said.
"She was there the night Eleanor disappeared.""
"Disappeared? Dad, you said she died in a car accident.""
His lips parted.
Nothing came out.
I grabbed his arm.
"You told me she died.""
"I know what I told you.""
"Was it a lie?""
He looked down at the letter.
"I don't know what happened that night, Clara. I thought I did. I believed the police. I believed the documents Vanessa showed me.""
"What documents?""
He rubbed his hands over his face.
"Insurance papers. A death certificate. A report from the authorities. Vanessa said she was helping because I couldn't handle it.""
My stomach twisted.
"Why would Vanessa have those documents?""
"She said she'd been helping your mother with financial matters.""
"Before Mom died?""
He nodded.
I thought of the earrings in Vanessa's ears. The emptied jewelry box. The necklace priced at ten dollars.
Then I remembered something else.
When I was thirteen, I had woken in the middle of the night and heard my mother arguing with someone downstairs.
I'd forgotten most of it over the years.
But one sentence had stayed with me.
You promised you'd keep Clara out of this.
I had assumed it was about money.
Now I wasn't sure.
I slipped the letter into my pocket.
"We need to find Lorraine.""
My father looked toward the kitchen.
"That might be harder than you think.""
"Why?""
"Because the last time I tried to contact her, Vanessa told me Lorraine was dead.""
A sudden crash sounded from upstairs.
We both froze.
Then came the sharp sound of a door slamming.
My father hurried into the hallway.
"Vanessa?""
No answer.
I followed him upstairs, clutching the necklace and letter.
The bedroom door stood open.
Vanessa's jewelry box lay on the floor, its contents scattered across the carpet. The dresser drawers had been pulled out. Clothes covered the bed.
Someone had searched the room.
Someone had been looking for something.
And on the vanity, beneath the shattered glass of a picture frame, lay a photograph I had never seen before.
My mother stood beside a younger Vanessa.
Between them was a woman with dark hair and a solemn expression.
On the back, in my mother's handwriting, were five words:
*Lorraine. Before everything changed.*
I turned the photograph over again.
There was something else written beneath the first line, almost erased by a thumbprint.
A date.
The date my mother supposedly died.
May you like
And beside it, one final sentence:
*She was not the woman in the coffin.*
