Under His Roof

CHAPTER VIII

Headlights swept across the kitchen window, cutting through the dark glass. I shoved the scratched photograph back inside the paper envelope and tucked the box onto the top shelf of the pantry cabinet. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stepped away from the counter, wiping my palms on my jeans.

Just as the metal latch of the box clicked shut, a tiny detail clicked in my head. Before I had shoved the print out of sight, my eyes had caught a faint yellow mark on the sleeve of the dark blue jacket. It was a circular patch sewn near the shoulder, a camp emblem with two crossed oars over a pine tree. It wasn't the general camper patch everyone wore. It was the water sports badge.

The heavy front door groaned open down the hall, followed by Zeke's boots hitting the floorboards. I stood near the sink, picking up a glass to fill with water so I didn't look completely guilty.

Zeke walked into the doorway, stopping when he saw me. His dark hair was sticking up in places, his face smudged with dark grease near his jawline from his evening shift at the garage. His gray eyes swept over the kitchen, stopping on me with that familiar, guarded intensity.

"You're still up," he said, his voice raspy from a long day.

"Just getting some water," I replied, keeping my hands steady as I turned off the tap.

He didn't move for a moment, his gaze lingering on the cabinet above my head before he gave a single, brief nod and turned toward the stairs. I waited until his bedroom door shut before breathing out a long, silent sigh.

The next morning, I waited until Zeke left for his early shift at the local auto shop. Mr. Bennett was sitting at the wooden table, nursing a steaming mug of black coffee while reading the local paper.

"Mr. Bennett?" I asked, leaning against the edge of the counter. "Do you still have any of the old paperwork from the summer camp? Schedules, rosters, anything like that?"

He lowered his newspaper slightly, looking over his reading glasses with a small frown. A flicker of discomfort crossed his face before he smoothed it over.

"Most of those old papers went in the recycling years ago, Daphne. What do you need camp schedules for?"

"I was just curious," I said, trying to sound casual. "I was going through those old photo boxes with your wife yesterday."

He sighed, setting the paper down on the wood.

"Well, there might still be an old blue binder sitting in the garage on top of the metal tool chest. I saved a few of the end of year roster sheets for taxes back when Arthur helped fund the program. You can check if it's still out there."

Five minutes later, I was standing in the cool, concrete air of the Bennett garage. The space smelled of gasoline, damp earth, and old cardboard. Near the back wall sat a rusted red tool chest, covered in a thin layer of dust. Tucked between two heavy plastic bins on top was a thick blue binder with a faded spine.

I pulled it out, blowing a dusting of gray powder off the front cover.

I opened the binder to the middle section labeled Summer 2018 Enrollment. Pages of printed names flashed past my fingers, arranged alphabetically by cabin group. My eyes scanned the lines, searching for the small water sports icon next to the names.

There were forty kids listed for the July session. I scrolled down the page until my finger hit the C section.

Calloway, Daphne.

A few lines lower, under B:

Bennett, Ezekiel.

Then my gaze dropped to the small list of six campers assigned to the advanced lake program, the ones who had earned the blue jacket with the crossed oars emblem. Five of the names were local kids I recognized from town, including Evan Carter.

The sixth name sat near the bottom, written in dark blue ink that matched the handwriting on the back of the photos.

Thomas Brown.

The name felt completely foreign, yet a strange, cold prickle rushed down my spine as I traced the letters with my thumb. I searched my mind for a face, a voice, a memory of anyone with that name.

Nothing came up.

It was like reading a random name out of a phone book.

"Where did you get that?"

The voice cracked through the quiet garage like a whip.

I jumped, dropping the binder onto the metal workbench with a loud clap. Zeke was standing in the side entrance of the garage, his shoulders broad against the morning light, his expression dark and rigid.

I didn't close the binder. I stood my ground, resting my hands on the edge of the workbench.

"Who is Thomas Brown?" I asked, looking him straight in the eyes.

Zeke's jaw clenched tightly, his gray eyes darkening as he crossed the concrete floor in three quick strides. He didn't answer. He reached down, grabbed the blue binder, and slammed it shut with a sharp smack that echoed through the small space.

"Leave this alone, Daphne," he said, his voice dangerously low.

"Everyone keeps telling me to leave it alone!" I shouted, my temper finally snapping. "You, Evan, your parents. Why? What are you all hiding from me?"

"Because you weren't supposed to be anywhere near the lake that day!" Zeke snapped back, stepping closer until he was towering over me, his knuckles white around the binder.

I froze.

The image from yesterday flashed back into my mind. Me standing behind the tall pine tree, the smell of wet wood, the sound of shouting near the water.

"Then why was I there?" I whispered, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep my composure.

Zeke looked down at me, the dark anger in his eyes suddenly shifting into a strange, hollow frustration that ran far deeper than a simple grudge.

"That's what I've been trying to figure out for eight years," he said softly.

The garage fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. The hum of a passing car outside drifted through the open door, but inside, neither of us moved.

I looked at him, taking in the tired lines around his eyes, the tight pull of his mouth, and the sheer exhaustion he seemed to carry every time this topic came up.

"If you think I did something terrible," I asked, my voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the room, "if you hate me so much for whatever happened that day, why haven't you told anyone? Why haven't you told your parents?"

Zeke held my gaze for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with short, heavy breaths. The cold mask he always wore seemed to crack just a fraction, revealing the immense weight sitting underneath.

"Because I promised someone I wouldn't," he said flatly.

He turned on his heel, holding the blue binder under his arm, and walked out of the garage before I could say another word.

I stood alone in the dim garage, my mind spinning with his answer.

He wasn't holding onto this secret out of spite. He wasn't keeping silent just to make my life miserable or to hold power over me. He was keeping a promise.

He was protecting someone else, even if it meant letting everyone think he was just an angry, bitter guy holding a grudge against a rich girl.

I spent the rest of the day in a haze, helping Mrs. Bennett fold laundry and sweep the front porch, but my mind remained stuck on the name Thomas Brown.

When night fell and the house grew quiet, I went up to my small room. I didn't turn on the lamp. I sat on the edge of the mattress, staring out the window at the dark street below, trying to piece together a puzzle where half the pieces were missing and the other half were covered in ink.

Around eleven o'clock, I heard a faint rustling sound near the base of my bedroom door.

I turned my head quickly.

A small, white rectangle was sticking out from the narrow gap between the bottom of the wood and the hallway runner.

My heart did a sudden, sharp flip against my ribs.

I slid off the bed, my bare feet silent against the floorboards, and reached down to pick up the paper. It was a single piece of thick notebook paper, folded twice into a neat square.

I opened it up in the dim moonlight spilling through the window.

Written across the middle in dark blue ink were four words:

Stop looking for him.

My pulse spiked.

I stepped to the door, grabbed the metal handle, and pulled it open, stepping out into the quiet hallway.

The corridor was completely dark. The doors to Mr. and Mrs. Bennett's room and Zeke's room were both shut tight. There was no sound, no movement, no sign of anyone standing near the banister.

I looked back down at the paper in my hand, turning it over under the hallway light.

Tucked underneath those four words, written in the exact same jagged handwriting, was a single final line:

Daphne.