Chapter 2 - The Thing in the Stomach
“Chloe,” I whispered, “what are you doing?”
My daughter jerked like she had been caught stealing food.
That reaction scared me more than the doll.
She clutched one hand behind her back. Stuffing lay scattered across the floor in pale little clumps. The rag doll’s belly sagged open, its button eye hanging sideways, watching nothing. Chloe’s braids had come loose while she worked, and her face was wet with silent tears.
“Baby, give me what’s in your hand.”
She shook her head.
“Chloe.”
“Daddy said I had to do it in secret.”
The hallway seemed to narrow behind me.
“What?”
She swallowed hard.
“He said not to let the bad woman see.”
The bad woman.
A phrase no five-year-old should be carrying at three in the morning.
I knelt in front of her, keeping my voice soft even though my pulse had become a hammer. “When did Daddy say that?”
She looked at the doll.
“Rosie told me.”
For half a second, I thought she meant imagination. A child building a message out of longing. Then she pointed at a tiny plastic voice box half-buried in the torn stuffing. The kind some old dolls used to play recorded phrases when squeezed.
My mouth went dry.
“Did the doll talk?”
Chloe nodded. “Only when I hugged her really hard. She said, ‘Look inside when Mommy sleeps.’”
I closed my eyes for one second.
When I opened them, I was no longer angry at a deadbeat father sending trash.
I was afraid.
“Show me.”
Slowly, Chloe opened her fist.
Inside was a small black USB drive wrapped in plastic and a crumpled piece of paper folded so tightly it looked like it had been swallowed by force. On the floor near her knee lay a photocopy of an ID card, blurred in the dim light.
I took the objects carefully.
Chloe’s lower lip trembled. “Am I bad?”
“No.” The word came out too sharp, so I softened it. “No, baby. You are not bad. You did nothing wrong.”
“Daddy said I had to help him.”
I pulled her into my arms.
Her body was warm, small, trusting in the way that made every adult failure feel unforgivable.
“You helped by telling me,” I said. “Now Mommy keeps it safe.”
She clung to my shirt. “Is Daddy in trouble?”
I thought of Harrison marrying Victoria Sterling in front of cameras while my daughter asked for him at daycare pickup. I thought of three years of silence. I thought of the doll’s sour smell and the hidden recording telling my child to wait until I slept.
“I don’t know,” I said, because the truth had turned strange enough that lying felt dangerous. “But you and I are safe right now.”
That became the first promise.
Right now.
I tucked Chloe back into bed, moved the torn doll to the top shelf where she could still see it but not reach inside it again, and sat beside her until her breathing slowed. She fought sleep, afraid to leave me alone with Daddy’s treasure.
“I won’t throw it away,” I whispered.
Her eyes closed.
When she finally slept, I went to my bedroom, locked the door, and unfolded the note.
The handwriting looked like Harrison’s.
Not perfect. Shaky. Crooked.
But familiar enough to make my stomach turn.
There was only one sentence.
Save me. Don’t trust her.
I opened the plastic bundle.
Inside was the USB drive and a copy of a driver’s license.
The photo was Victoria Sterling.
But the name was not.
Rachel Collins.
Arkansas.
A woman with a different life before the diamonds.
I plugged the USB into my laptop.
There were only videos.
I opened the first one.
Harrison appeared on-screen, pale and hollow-eyed, sitting somewhere dark.
May you like
“Sarah,” he rasped, “if you’re watching this, it means I don’t have much time.”
I covered my mouth so I would not scream.
