Under His Roof

CHAPTER XIII

I stood in the pale moonlight, staring down at the faded photograph until the edges blurred before my eyes. My thumb traced the sharp slant of the letters on the back. You asked him to save you. It was my handwriting. The distinct, looping e and the neat, tight tail on the y were undeniably mine, written in the same dark blue ink I used throughout fifth grade.

If I wrote this, why didn't I remember touching the pen? Why couldn't I recall standing near the water that day?

I turned the print back over, bringing it closer to the pale light streaming through the window. In the photo, eleven year old me was handing a folded slip of white paper to Thomas Brown. But Thomas wasn't looking at the paper. His dark eyes were fixed directly on my face with an intense, desperate expression that made a cold wave of anxiety wash over me. In his left hand, tucked behind his back away from the camera lens, he wasn't just holding the blue water sports jacket. His fingers were wrapped tightly around a small, brass colored key.

I didn't sleep for the rest of the night. I sat on the edge of the mattress with the photograph pressed between my palms, listening to the house settle, waiting for the sky outside to shift from black to gray.

At six in the morning, I heard the familiar creak of the floorboards in the hallway. I didn't wait. I grabbed the photograph, pulled my bedroom door open, and marched straight toward the top of the stairs.

Zeke was standing near the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee pot to brew, wearing his usual faded work shirt. He turned his head as my footsteps thudded down the wooden steps, his gray eyes narrowing slightly when he took in my pale face and dark circles.

I walked straight up to him, stopping just two feet away. I held up the photograph, turning it so the front image faced him.

"You knew him, didn't you?" I asked, my voice tight, cutting through the quiet kitchen. "You knew Thomas Brown."

Zeke didn't flinch. He didn't drop his gaze, and he didn't reach for the mug on the counter. His expression hardened into a stone wall, but a tiny twitch near his jaw gave him away. He looked at the boy in the photo, then slowly shifted his eyes back to mine.

"What exactly do you remember about that day, Daphne?" he asked softly, his raspy voice dangerously calm.

A sudden, chilling realization hit me. He wasn't denying it. He wasn't even trying to make up an excuse or brush me off like he usually did. He was measuring my words. He was testing me, trying to figure out how much of my lost past had come back before he decided what to say.

"I remember the smell of wet pine," I said, holding his gaze, refusing to back down. "I remember hiding behind the big oak tree near the gravel pathway by the boathouse."

Zeke let out a short, quiet breath, shaking his head slightly. "The gravel path was blocked off that morning because of the fallen storm branch. You were standing down on the slippery rocks near the deep water channel."

The kitchen fell completely silent.

My breath caught in my throat. I stared at him, every muscle in my body freezing as his words echoed through my mind.

"I never said anything about deep water, Zeke," I whispered, stepping closer. "I've never mentioned the rocks to anyone. How did you know I was down near the channel?"

Zeke's gray eyes widened slightly, a flash of genuine panic cracking through his guarded posture. He slammed his mouth shut, stepping back against the kitchen counter as if he had just walked into a trap. He turned his head away, staring out the window into the dim morning light, refusing to answer.

"How did you know?" I demanded, my voice rising. "You were watching me!"

"Drop it, Daphne," he said, his voice flat, but the tremor in his hands gave him away as he picked up his coffee mug. "You don't know what you're asking about."

He pushed past me, his heavy work boots thudding against the floorboards as he walked straight out the back door into the cold morning air, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen with my heart hammering frantically against my ribs.

I spent the rest of the morning in a state of high alert. Every sound in the house made me jump. Every time Mrs. Bennett walked past the doorway, I wondered how much she knew, or if she was completely blind to whatever secret her eldest son was keeping.

Around noon, while Mrs. Bennett was out running errands, I went up to the small attic space above the hall closet where the family stored old boxes from my parents' former summer house. Among the dusty stacks of old winter coats and books, I found a small cardboard box labeled with my name in my mother's neat cursive.

Inside lay a few stuffed animals, an old art set, and a spiral bound childhood notebook with a faded cover.

My hands trembled as I pulled the notebook out and sat down on the dusty attic floorboards. I flipped through the early pages. They were filled with silly doodles, lists of favorite books, and short entries about summer weather.

Then I reached the middle section.

A page had been jaggedly torn out from the wire binding, leaving only small scraps of paper stuck to the metal spiral. I turned to the next page.

Sitting right at the top of the crisp white sheet, written in dark blue ink with my distinct, looping handwriting, was a single sentence:

I promised Thomas I wouldn't tell anyone.

I stared at the page, my mind spinning into a terrifying void. I had no memory of writing those words. I had no memory of making a promise to Thomas Brown. It was like looking at the handwriting of a complete stranger who shared my name and my face. I had carried this secret inside me for eight years, locked away in a part of my brain I couldn't reach.

I closed the notebook, clutching it against my chest as I sat alone in the dim attic, the quiet space wrapping around me like a cold blanket. I wasn't just investigating a mystery outside myself anymore. I was chasing a ghost living inside my own head.

That night, the house was silent. The wind outside rattled the wooden window frames, sending long shadows dancing across my bedroom walls. I lay in bed awake, staring at the ceiling, the notebook hidden underneath my pillow alongside the small plastic camp ID card.

Around one in the morning, a faint, metallic rustle sounded near the base of my door.

My eyes snapped toward the floor. In the darkness, I saw a thin rectangle slip through the narrow gap beneath the wood, sliding silently onto the rug.

My pulse spiked instantly. I threw the covers back, my bare feet hitting the cold floorboards as I rushed to the door. I grabbed the brass handle, yanked the door open, and stepped out into the hallway.

The corridor was pitch black. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain, but there was no sound of footsteps, no shadow moving near the stairs, no sign of anyone in the house.

I looked down at my feet.

Lying on the dark carpet was another faded photograph.

My hands shook as I picked it up, stepping back into my room and pulling it into the pale light of the window.

This photo was different from the others. It was a wide shot taken near the edge of the lake, under the shade of the tall pine trees. Standing together near the wooden dock were three children: Thomas Brown, an eleven year old Zeke with his red arm cast, and me. We were all staring at the water, our expressions pale and rigid with shock.

My stomach dropped into a sickening spiral. We had all been there together.

I turned the photograph over in my trembling fingers.

Written across the back in dark, jagged blue handwriting was a single line that changed everything I thought I understood about July 14, 2018:

You weren't the one who needed saving.