Chapter 7 - The Babysitter
Diane had been nineteen.
My parents hired her occasionally.
On the night Hannah died, Diane told investigators she had gone downstairs after putting us to bed.
She smelled smoke.
She rescued me.
She could not reach Hannah.
That story had made her a local hero.
My mother never believed it.
According to Helen, there were inconsistencies.
Diane claimed both girls were asleep.
I told investigators Hannah had been hiding.
Diane claimed she had never entered the red room after bedtime.
A neighbor claimed she saw Diane leaving through the side door shortly before the fire.
Nothing was proven.
My parents moved away.
Diane eventually married.
Years later, her son somehow became engaged to Laura.
Then he married me.
Coincidence had officially become impossible.
I called Detective Sarah Coleman, who had been assigned to Emma’s case.
She listened without interrupting.
Within an hour, officers began retrieving the old fire records.
Mark called from the station.
I almost ignored him.
Then I answered.
“Did you know your mother babysat me?”
Silence.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“When were you planning to tell me?”
“I thought you knew.”
“Stop lying.”
“I found out after we married.”
“From Laura?”
“Yes.”
“What did Laura want?”
“She wanted to prove Mom caused the fire.”
There it was.
Mark had spent years trapped between a woman investigating his mother and a wife who had forgotten the event entirely.
“Why didn’t you tell police?”
“Because Laura had no proof.”
“And Emma?”
Mark’s voice broke.
“Mom started asking about Emma’s dreams.”
“Why?”
“Because Emma described the red room.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
“She said Emma couldn’t possibly know unless you had started remembering.”
“So she drugged her?”
“I told her to stop asking questions.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“No.”
“Did you ever give Emma medication?”
“No.”
“Did you ever know it was haloperidol?”
“No.”
For the first time, I believed him.
Not because he deserved trust.
Because fear in his voice sounded genuine.
Then he said:
“Rachel, there’s something else.”
“What?”
“Laura disappeared six months ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“Disappeared?”
“She stopped answering everyone.”
“Did you report it?”
“She told me beforehand she was leaving.”
“Why?”
“She said she finally found proof.”
“What proof?”
“A recording.”
“Of Diane?”
“Yes.”
I sat upright.
“Where is it?”
“She hid it somewhere your mother would never find.”
“My mother is dead.”
“Not your mother.”
He meant Diane.
Then Mark whispered:
“She told me if anything happened to her, Rebecca would know where to look.”
I hated that name.
But somewhere beneath the anger, something stirred.
A memory.
Two little girls sitting beneath a bed.
One whispering to the other:
If the bad lady comes back, hide it where the moon is broken.
The moon-shaped lamp.
May you like
I stood so quickly the chair moved backward.
I suddenly knew where Laura’s evidence was.
