“Dad says she died when I was little.”
I crouched beside him.
“Are you certain that’s what he said?”
“He said she went away and couldn’t come back.”
Silas swallowed.
“Then Grandma told me people don’t come back after they die. So I asked Dad if Mom was dead, and he said it was better not to talk about it anymore.”
He pointed toward the newest envelope.
“That came last week.”
The postmark was clearly visible.
July 29.
Eight days earlier.
I felt a slow pressure build behind my ribs.
“Did you open any of these?”
“One.”
He stared at the floor.
“I know I wasn’t supposed to.”
“You’re not in trouble.”
Silas looked up.
“It said she remembered the song she used to sing when I couldn’t sleep.”
His voice became smaller.
“I remember a song, but I don’t remember her face.”
I glanced around the room again.
On the shelf stood a framed photograph of a young woman holding a baby wrapped in a green blanket. She had light brown hair like Silas and the same serious gray eyes.
Someone had turned the photograph toward the bed, as though the person sleeping there might want to see it.
“Does your grandmother know you found this room?”
“I think so.”
“What makes you think that?”
“She moved the key.”
“Was it somewhere else before?”
“In the blue sugar bowl.”
He paused.
“After I opened the letter, the key disappeared. Then I found it behind the apron.”
Silas moved toward the window.
“I heard someone in here three nights ago.”
“What did you hear?”
“Talking.”
“Could it have been your grandmother?”
“One voice was Grandma.”
“And the other?”
He looked at the photograph.
“A lady.”
I stood and checked the window. It faced a narrow backyard crowded with overgrown lilac bushes. The latch was old, but secure. There was no obvious second entrance.
“Did you see the woman?”
“No. Grandma made me go upstairs.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she was listening to the radio.”
Silas’s gaze returned to the fresh flowers.
“But radios don’t bring daisies.”
He was right.
I stepped into the hallway and called my supervisor. I explained what I had found without making assumptions. A child had arrived at a house where no guardian appeared to be present. The exits were partly obstructed, and there were unanswered questions about who had recently been inside.
My supervisor contacted the family services liaison and asked me to remain with Silas until we reached his father or grandmother.
When I returned to the hidden room, Silas was sitting on the edge of the bed.
He had not opened another letter.
He simply rested his hand on the quilt.
“Do you think she’s alive?” he asked.
There are questions children ask because they want information.
And then there are questions they ask because the answer will divide their life into everything that came before and everything that comes after.
“I think there are adults who need to tell you the truth,” I said. “And I’m going to stay until someone does.”
He studied me carefully.
“You promised you wouldn’t leave before you saw.”
“I saw.”
“So now you can leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere yet.”
His shoulders lowered a fraction.
It was the first time since we had met that he looked less prepared to be disappointed.
I called the number listed for his father.
Daniel Granger answered on the fourth ring. Behind his voice I could hear machinery and people talking. He worked at an equipment repair company on the eastern edge of town.
“This is Officer Mara Ellis,” I said. “I’m at your mother’s house with Silas.”
There was a sharp pause.
“Why?”
“He approached me outside the school and asked for help.”
“Is he hurt?”
“No.”
“My mother?”
“She isn’t here.”
Another pause followed, longer this time.
“She’s supposed to be there.”
“I need you to come to the house.”
“What happened?”
I looked through the pantry doorway at the letters.
“There are several things we should discuss in person.”
His tone changed.
