Chapter Seven — The House We Forgot
2352 Words
The little girl disappeared before I could take another step.
I stood frozen in the hospital corridor.
Smoke curled along the ceiling.
The fire alarm screamed above us.
People rushed past me, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart.
“I'm not leaving you here.”
Lucian's hand closed around mine.
“Come on.”
I looked at him.
“The girl—”
“We'll talk about her outside.”
“But—”
“Now, Elara.”
There was something in his voice that made me listen.
He pulled me toward the exit.
Vivienne followed closely behind.
We made it outside just as firefighters rushed into the building.
I bent forward, trying to catch my breath.
Vivienne came beside me.
“Elara?”
I looked at her.
“You saw her too?”
She nodded slowly.
“The girl from the photograph.”
I swallowed.
“Then I'm not imagining things.”
“No.”
She looked toward the hospital.
“But I wish you were.”
Lucian stood a few feet away, speaking to one of the firefighters.
I watched him.
His face was unusually tense.
When he turned back toward us, I asked,
“You saw her.”
He stopped.
Vivienne looked at him.
He didn't deny it.
“Yes.”
My heart jumped.
“You saw her?”
“For a few seconds.”
“What did she look like?”
“Seven years old.”
“White dress?”
“Yes.”
“Hospital bracelet?”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“What did she do?”
“She looked at you.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then?”
“She disappeared.”
Vivienne folded her arms.
“That isn't possible.”
Lucian looked at her.
“Apparently, we're past possible.”
I almost laughed.
It was the first thing anyone had said that sounded remotely normal.
Almost.
Then the firefighter approached.
“We need everyone to clear the area.”
Lucian nodded.
“We're leaving.”
I looked at the hospital one last time.
The windows on the upper floor were covered in smoke.
I couldn't shake the feeling that the fire hadn't happened by accident.
Someone wanted those records gone.
And they had waited until we found them.
---
We returned to the hotel just before sunrise.
Vivienne fell asleep almost immediately.
I couldn't.
I stood beside the window, watching the city wake up.
People were going to work.
Cars filled the roads.
A woman walked a little boy to school.
Everything looked normal.
My life no longer did.
“You should sleep.”
I turned.
Lucian stood behind me.
“You've said that three times.”
“Because you haven't listened.”
“I've had a difficult night.”
“So have I.”
I studied him.
He looked exhausted.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and there was a small cut near his hand.
I pointed at it.
“What happened?”
He glanced at his hand.
“Nothing.”
“That's blood.”
“It's a scratch.”
“You should clean it.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Are you worried about me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I frowned.
“Why did you say it like that?”
“Because you sounded convincing.”
I rolled my eyes.
He walked past me.
I noticed he was carrying two cups of coffee.
He placed one in front of me.
I stared at it.
“What's this?”
“Coffee.”
“I know.”
“You've been awake for hours.”
“How do you know?”
“I was awake too.”
I picked up the cup.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
For a moment, we stood there quietly.
Then I noticed something.
“You didn't sleep.”
“Neither did you.”
“That wasn't my question.”
He looked at me.
“I've been investigating your family for a long time.”
My hand stopped halfway to my mouth.
“Why?”
“Because of your father.”
“You said he worked with your company.”
“He did.”
“And disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Lucian looked out the window.
“Because he found something.”
“What?”
He was silent.
I sighed.
“Of course.”
“What?”
“You're allergic to giving straight answers.”
A faint smile appeared.
“Perhaps.”
I stared at him.
“You know, you're much easier to tolerate when you're not being mysterious.”
“And you're much easier to tolerate when you're not interrogating me.”
“I don't interrogate people.”
“You're a journalist.”
“Exactly.”
He smiled again.
This time, I smiled too.
It disappeared almost immediately.
Because I remembered the photograph.
The girl.
The fire.
The seven-year-old child.
I looked at him.
“Did you really know me when I was seven?”
His smile vanished.
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“I remember a little girl.”
“Where?”
“An old house.”
My heart skipped.
“What house?”
“I don't know.”
“You're saying you remember me but not where?”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I know.”
I stared at him.
“Do you remember my mother?”
He didn't answer.
“Lucian.”
“Yes.”
“What about my father?”
“Yes.”
“And the other girl?”
He looked at me.
“What other girl?”
I froze.
“You don't remember her?”
“No.”
I studied his face.
He looked genuinely confused.
That frightened me.
Because if Lucian truly didn't remember her, then whatever had happened seven years ago had affected more people than I realized.
---
By late morning, we returned to my mother's house.
I didn't want to.
But there was nowhere else to go.
The house looked exactly as we'd left it.
Except something felt different.
As soon as I stepped inside, I knew.
“What's wrong?” Vivienne asked.
“I don't know.”
I walked into the living room.
The photograph was gone.
I turned around.
“Where is it?”
Vivienne frowned.
“What?”
“The photograph.”
“The one of us?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you had it.”
I searched my bag.
Nothing.
Lucian checked the table.
Nothing.
“Someone took it,” I said.
“Probably.”
I looked at him.
“Probably?”
“There are too many people interested in that photograph.”
I walked toward the staircase.
“Then we need to find out why.”
Vivienne grabbed my arm.
“Elara.”
I stopped.
“There's something I haven't told you.”
I turned slowly.
“What?”
She looked nervous.
“I remembered something last night.”
“About the old house?”
She nodded.
“What?”
“I remembered the hallway.”
“What about it?”
“There was a room at the end.”
“Who used it?”
“I don't know.”
“Try.”
She closed her eyes.
“There were two beds.”
My heart tightened.
“Two?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“A wardrobe.”
“A window?”
“No.”
She opened her eyes.
“There was no window.”
I stared at her.
“Then why would two children sleep there?”
“I don't know.”
“Who were the children?”
She hesitated.
“I remember two girls.”
I couldn't breathe.
“Us?”
She shook her head.
“I remember you.”
“And the other?”
“I don't know.”
“You must.”
She looked at me helplessly.
“I remember calling her something.”
“What?”
“I can't remember.”
I stepped closer.
“Think.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Then suddenly opened them.
“Lara.”
My heart stopped.
“Lara?”
“Yes.”
“That isn't my name.”
“I know.”
“Was that her name?”
“I think so.”
Lucian, who had been standing quietly near the door, suddenly spoke.
“Where did you hear that name?”
Vivienne looked at him.
“In the house.”
He went completely still.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
She frowned.
“A man used to call her that.”
“What man?”
“I don't know.”
Lucian's expression had changed.
I noticed.
“You know the name.”
“No.”
“You reacted.”
“I was surprised.”
“You always say that.”
He looked at me.
“This time, I mean it.”
---
That afternoon, Lucian received a call.
He stepped outside to answer it.
I watched him through the window.
He stood with his back toward the house.
His expression became more serious as the conversation continued.
When he returned, I asked,
“What happened?”
“We found someone.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Adeyemi.”
Vivienne stood immediately.
“She's alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“She agreed to come here.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because she says she knows what happened seven years ago.”
My heart started pounding.
“How soon?”
“She'll be here in ten minutes.”
Those ten minutes felt like an hour.
When the car finally arrived, an older woman stepped out.
She looked tired.
She held a small handbag tightly against her chest.
Her eyes moved around the house.
Then she saw me.
She stopped.
Her face went pale.
“Oh.”
I stepped forward.
“Mrs. Adeyemi?”
She nodded.
“You look exactly like her.”
I frowned.
“Who?”
She didn't answer.
Instead, she looked at Vivienne.
Then at Lucian.
Something passed between them.
Recognition.
Fear.
I noticed both.
“Please,” I said. “I need answers.”
She looked at me.
“Your mother didn't want you to know.”
“I'm tired of hearing that.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
She sat down.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Finally, she whispered,
“You had an older sister.”
I stopped breathing.
Vivienne looked at her.
“What?”
Mrs. Adeyemi's hands trembled.
“Your mother had two daughters.”
I stared at her.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My mother had two children.”
“She had three.”
The room went silent.
I looked at Vivienne.
She looked just as shocked.
“That's impossible,” she whispered.
Mrs. Adeyemi shook her head.
“It isn't.”
I sat down slowly.
“Where is she?”
Mrs. Adeyemi looked at me.
“That's the problem.”
“What problem?”
“She disappeared.”
My heart pounded.
“When?”
“Seven years ago.”
I looked at Lucian.
He hadn't moved.
Mrs. Adeyemi continued.
“There was a fire.”
I felt cold.
“The hospital?”
She nodded.
“And the old house?”
Another nod.
“Both were connected.”
“How?”
She looked at me.
“Because your mother was trying to hide one of you.”
I swallowed.
“Which one?”
She didn't answer.
“Mrs. Adeyemi.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I don't know which girl she was trying to protect.”
I stared at her.
“Then what happened?”
“She took you away.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“And my sister?”
“She stayed behind.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“Who was looking for her?”
Mrs. Adeyemi looked at Lucian.
He stepped forward.
“Tell her.”
The older woman looked frightened.
“I can't.”
“You have to.”
She shook her head.
“If they know I told you…”
“Who are they?”
She didn't answer.
I stood.
“Who are they?”
Her lips trembled.
Then she whispered,
“The people who believed one of the girls was worth more than the other.”
I felt sick.
“Why?”
She looked at me.
“Because one of them was your father's daughter.”
I frowned.
“Both were.”
Mrs. Adeyemi shook her head.
“No.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
She opened her handbag.
She pulled out a photograph.
Two little girls stood side by side.
I took it.
My fingers began to shake.
One girl looked exactly like me.
The other looked almost identical.
Vivienne stepped closer.
Her face drained of color.
“I know her.”
I looked at her.
“Who?”
She pointed at the girl beside me.
“That girl.”
Her voice broke.
“She was supposed to be my sister.”
I stared at the photograph.
Two girls.
Same face.
Same dark hair.
Same eyes.
One had a white ribbon around her wrist.
The other had nothing.
I looked at Mrs. Adeyemi.
“Which one am I?”
She didn't answer.
Instead, she whispered,
“That's the question your mother has been running from for twenty years.”
My heart stopped.
Twenty years.
I looked at the photograph again.
Then at Lucian.
He was staring at the two girls like he'd seen them before.
“Lucian?”
He didn't respond.
“Have you seen this?”
His eyes lifted slowly.
“Yes.”
The room went silent.
“You have?”
He nodded.
“Where?”
He looked at the photograph.
Then at me.
“At your father's house.”
My blood ran cold.
“Seven years ago.”
And suddenly, I understood.
This wasn't a mystery that had begun with my sister's wedding.
It had begun long before I ever met Lucian.
Long before Vivienne disappeared.
And perhaps—
long before I was even old enough to remember.
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