Chapter 6 - THE LETTERS UNDER THE FLOOR
Daniel moved Lucas to another wing that evening.
Not because the child was in immediate physical danger.
Because Daniel no longer trusted any room Evelyn controlled.
Natalie stayed nearby.
Two security officers Daniel had personally vetted were assigned outside.
Evelyn objected.
Daniel ignored her.
Thomas stopped answering calls.
That was an answer too.
Daniel’s finance team began quietly examining every household account connected to Thomas.
Meanwhile, Natalie searched for something less obvious.
Memory.
Lucas remembered details adults dismissed.
The emerald bracelet.
Arguments.
Which caregivers hugged him.
Which doors Evelyn disliked him opening.
At bedtime, Natalie sat beside him.
“Did Megan ever give you anything?”
Lucas nodded.
“A star box.”
“What happened to it?”
“Mrs. Hart took it.”
“Why?”
“She said it made me cry.”
“Where did she put it?”
Lucas pointed downward.
“Mommy’s room.”
Grace’s old dressing room had been closed after her death.
Daniel had not entered for more than two years.
The key remained in his safe.
When he opened the room, the scent hit him first.
Faint perfume.
Old wood.
Dust.
Memory.
Grace’s silk robe still hung behind the door.
Daniel stopped.
Natalie remained outside.
“You don’t have to do this tonight.”
Daniel looked at the room.
“Yes, I do.”
They searched carefully.
Nothing called a star box.
Then Lucas walked directly toward a window seat.
“Under.”
Daniel lifted the cushion.
Wood.
Lucas shook his head.
“Under under.”
Natalie crouched.
One floorboard near the base looked newer.
Daniel pried it up.
A shallow cavity appeared.
Inside sat a blue cardboard box covered with silver stars.
Lucas smiled.
“Megan.”
Daniel opened it.
Letters.
Dozens.
Megan’s.
Sarah’s.
Joanne’s.
Even caregivers Daniel barely remembered.
Every letter addressed to Lucas.
Every one opened.
None delivered.
Daniel picked up the first.
Dear Lucas,
I want you to know I didn’t choose to leave without saying goodbye…
He stopped reading.
Another.
I hope you still sleep with the dinosaur blanket. Please never think you made me go…
Another.
Your dad probably doesn’t know I’m writing, but I promised I would never disappear without telling you why…
Daniel lowered the page.
Natalie’s eyes filled with tears.
Lucas looked confused.
“They wrote me?”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
Daniel could barely answer.
“Yes.”
Lucas picked up a letter.
“Why didn’t I get them?”
Daniel closed his eyes.
Because I was not paying attention.
Because I gave someone else the authority to decide which parts of your life reached me.
Because I signed papers and called that parenting.
Instead he said:
“I should have made sure you did.”
Lucas looked at him.
“Did you hide them?”
“No.”
“Did you know?”
“No.”
The boy seemed relieved.
That hurt too.
Daniel pulled him close.
“I’m sorry.”
Lucas remained quiet.
Then asked:
“Can we read them?”
They spent two hours doing exactly that.
Some caregivers had left voluntarily.
Two moved away.
One became pregnant.
Another changed careers.
But seven letters said the same thing in different words.
Evelyn dismissed them.
Often immediately after Lucas became emotionally attached.
One letter from Joanne included something unusual.
A photocopy of an invoice.
She had apparently discovered it in household files.
HARTWELL FAMILY SERVICES.
Placement fee: $38,000.
Replacement fee: $24,000.
Emotional-risk reassessment: $11,500.
Daniel stared.
Every caregiver dismissal generated fees.
Natalie frowned.
“What is Hartwell?”
“I don’t know.”
Daniel called his finance investigator.
The answer came twenty minutes later.
Hartwell Family Services was registered in Delaware.
Its beneficiary was hidden behind another company.
But its mailing address belonged to a small accounting office once owned by Evelyn Hart’s late brother.
Daniel’s face hardened.
Natalie whispered:
“She made money every time someone left.”
Daniel nodded.
Now the pattern made sense.
Not all of it.
But enough.
Stable caregivers meant fewer placement fees.
Fewer assessments.
Fewer emergency replacements.
Lucas’s distress was profitable.
Then Daniel noticed something taped beneath the last letter.
A small brass key.
No label.
A handwritten note from Joanne:
Grace told me if anything ever happened to her, this belongs to Lucas—not Evelyn.
Daniel stared at the name.
Grace.
May you like
His dead wife had hidden something before she died.
And Evelyn had spent three years making sure nobody found it.
