Then I received an anonymous text.
COME TO THE OLD HOUSE ALONE.
Underneath it was a photograph.
The hidden door beneath the stairs.
Open.
I went.
I shouldn’t have.
But I did.
The old house smelled exactly as I remembered.
Dust.
Wood.
Old photographs.
Memories.
I walked beneath the staircase.
The little white door was still there.
My hand trembled as I opened it.
Behind it was a narrow hallway.
The walls were covered with photographs.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Photographs of me.
As a child.
As a teenager.
At school.
At my wedding.
Holding Paisley.
Sleeping.
Walking.
Living.
Someone had been watching me for years.
At the end of the hallway was a room.
Inside were boxes.
I opened the first.
Birth certificates.
Medical records.
School records.
Then I saw a folder.
My name.
I opened it.
The first page made my knees buckle.
SUBJECT: EMILY HART
