The woman who had brought me there, Claire, stepped into the room.
“I think it’s time I told you something.”
My daughter looked at her.
“What?”
Claire sat down beside her.
“When I bought the bag from you, you told me it came from your childhood.”
My daughter nodded.
“I didn’t remember much.”
Claire looked at me.
“But I noticed something inside it.”
My heart raced.
“What?”
She opened the bag.
From a small inner pocket, she pulled out a folded piece of paper.
My hands began to shake.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
Mine.
I had written that note sixteen years earlier and forgotten about it.
It was meant to be tucked inside the bag before my daughter left for the beach.
But we had argued before I had the chance.
Claire unfolded it.
There were only three lines.
“Whatever happens, remember this:”
“You are loved.”
“You can always come home.”
My daughter stared at the paper.
Then she began sobbing.
“I remember.”
I moved toward her.
She didn’t pull away.
“I remember this.”
She pressed the paper against her chest.
“You wrote it.”
“Yes.”
She looked at me through tears.
“Why did he tell me you didn’t love me?”
I had no answer.
Not yet.
But then Claire pulled another item from the bag.
A tiny photograph.
It showed my daughter at seventeen.
On the back was a date.
July 12, 2008.
And beneath it, written in handwriting I didn’t recognize, were five words:
“She must not be found.”
My stomach turned.
Someone had deliberately hidden my daughter.
Part 5 — The Man Who Lied
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