My first thought was that Nolan had written those words himself.
But something about the handwriting bothered me.
It wasn’t childish. The letters were too neat. Too deliberate.
And the pressure of the marker was heavy, almost as if whoever had written it had been angry or frightened.
I picked up the box again.
It rattled softly.
Something was inside.
My hands began shaking.
I knew I shouldn’t open it.
Every sensible part of me was telling me to put it back exactly where I’d found it, call Trevor, and ask him what was going on.
But another thought came rushing into my mind.
Why would my nine-year-old grandson hide a metal box beneath his mattress?
And why would he write DO NOT LET DAD SEE?
I thought about breakfast.
The awkward silence.
Mallory avoiding my eyes.
Trevor changing the subject when I’d asked about the renovations.
And Nolan…
That strange moment when Trevor had asked about the backpack.
Nolan had looked terrified.
Not guilty.
Terrified.
I swallowed hard.
Then I opened the box.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
Beneath it were several photographs.
I pulled out the paper first.
It was folded so many times that the creases were beginning to tear.
I unfolded it carefully.
The first line made my stomach tighten.
Grandma, if you found this, I couldn’t tell you.
I stopped breathing for a moment.
I knew that handwriting.
It was Nolan’s.
I sat down again.
The note continued.
I’m sorry I lied about the backpack.
My eyes blurred.
I wiped them quickly and kept reading.
Please don’t call Dad right away.
My fingers tightened around the paper.
Then came the sentence that made my entire body go cold.
The renovations aren’t the reason we had to leave home.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Outside, a car passed on the road.
For one irrational second, I thought Trevor had come back.
I rushed to the window.
Nothing.
Just the empty driveway.
I turned back toward the bed.
The metal box sat there exactly where I’d left it.
I picked up the photographs.
The first showed Nolan and Maisie standing beside a house.
Their house.
I recognized it immediately.
They were smiling.
But the photograph had been taken at night.
And behind them, on the downstairs windows, were strips of plywood.
The second photograph showed the inside of the house.
Construction dust covered the floor.
Plastic sheets hung from the ceiling.
Tools were scattered across a room.
That seemed normal.
Until I noticed something in the corner.
A large black suitcase.
I flipped to the next photograph.
The suitcase was gone.
The fourth photograph showed Trevor standing in the same room.
He was facing away from the camera.
Beside him stood a man I’d never seen before.
The man was wearing a dark jacket.
I stared at his face.
There was something familiar about him.
Not because I knew him.
Because I’d seen him before.
I searched my memory.
Then it hit me.
The previous summer.
Trevor had brought a contractor to my house to help repair my porch.
The man had been there for perhaps twenty minutes.
I remembered him because he’d barely spoken.
But was this the same man?
I wasn’t sure.
I turned over the photograph.
On the back, Nolan had written:
He came back after Mom told him not to.
My stomach twisted.
I reached for another photograph.
This one was different.
It showed a hallway.
At first, I couldn’t understand why Nolan had taken it.
Then I saw the small red light near the ceiling.
A camera.
My hands went numb.
There was a security camera inside their house.
And it wasn’t one I’d ever heard Trevor mention.
I picked up the note again.
There were several more lines.
Dad says the cameras are for security. Mom says they aren’t ours.
Maisie saw someone watching them.
Dad got angry when she told him.
I covered my mouth.
“No…”
The final section of the note had been written much more messily.
Grandma, I don’t know who to trust.
Mom said if anything happens, I should come to you.
But Dad told me never to tell you what happens at home.
I couldn’t read the next sentence immediately because tears had filled my eyes.
I blinked them away.
Then I read it.
That’s why I kept the backpack with me.
I looked toward the hallway.
The green backpack.
For two months, that little backpack had been beside Nolan everywhere.
At breakfast.
In the garden.
On the porch.
During movies.
Even while he slept.
I suddenly realized something.
Nolan hadn’t been protecting the backpack.
He’d been protecting what was inside it.
I grabbed my phone.
My first instinct was to call Trevor.
But then I remembered the note.
Please don’t call Dad right away.
My thumb hovered over his name.
I couldn’t understand how the son I’d raised could possibly be involved in something that frightened his own child.
But I also knew something else.
Children don’t normally write notes like this.
Not nine-year-old children.
Not unless they’ve been carrying a fear they don’t know how to explain.
I put the phone down.
Then I heard something.
A faint sound from downstairs.
A click.
I froze.
Someone was in the house.
I listened.
Nothing.
Then another sound.
A floorboard creaked.
My heart began pounding.
I quietly closed Nolan’s bedroom door.
I stood there for several seconds, barely breathing.
Another creak.
This time, closer.
I picked up the metal box.
Then I remembered the photographs.
I shoved them and the note into the pocket of my cardigan.
The box went under the pillow.
I slowly opened the bedroom door.
The hallway was empty.
I stepped out.
“Nolan?” I called instinctively.
No answer.
I walked toward the stairs.
Halfway down, I stopped.
The front door was still locked.
The windows were closed.
Nobody was downstairs.
I exhaled shakily.
