Chapter 4 - THE CHILD'S DRAWING
I stared at the crumpled piece of paper in Anthony’s shaking hand.
It was unmistakably Sophie’s artwork. The jagged crayon strokes, the uneven proportions, the vibrant, chaotic colors—it was the work of a four-year-old child trying to make sense of a nightmare.
I stepped closer, pulling Sophie gently behind my leg to shield her from the tension radiating off her father.
The drawing depicted a dark, stormy night. Heavy blue and black crayon marks slashed across the top of the page, mimicking rain. In the center was a red box with four black circles—a car. And inside the car, drawn with a sad face, was a woman with long yellow hair.
Elena.
But it was what Sophie had drawn outside the car that made my blood run completely cold.
Standing next to the red car was another stick figure. This one was drawn with dark hair, wearing a very distinct, heavy green coat. And in the figure's hand was a massive, detailed object colored in bright yellow and silver crayon.
“Sophie,” Anthony whispered, his voice cracking as he looked down at his daughter. “Sweetheart… when did you draw this?”
Sophie peeked out from behind my apron, her little hands gripping the white fabric tightly.
“A long time ago, Daddy,” she said softly. “After Mommy went to heaven. Isabella found it in my room last month. She said it was a bad picture and took it away.”
Anthony’s eyes slowly lifted from the paper and locked onto Isabella, who was trembling by the library door.
For five years, Anthony Romano had believed a lie. The police report, the coroner, the private investigators he hired—everyone had told him that Elena had been driving alone to their cabin in the mountains. They said she hit a patch of black ice, lost control, and flipped her car into a ravine.
A tragic, unavoidable accident.
But children don’t lie about their trauma. They draw it.
“You told me you weren't there when the crash happened,” Anthony said, his voice deadly quiet. “You just told me you arrived after the fact.”
Isabella swallowed hard, backing away until her shoulders hit the doorframe. “I… I was! I told you, I followed her!”
“Then why,” Anthony asked, taking a menacing step toward her, “did my daughter draw a figure standing next to my wife’s car before it went off the road? And why is this figure wearing the exact same emerald-green wool coat you wore every winter?”
Isabella shook her head frantically. “She’s a child, Anthony! She wasn’t even in the car! She was at home with the nanny that night! She’s just drawing things she imagined!”
“No, I wasn't,” Sophie spoke up, her voice surprisingly firm.
We all turned to look at the little girl.
“Mommy woke me up in the middle of the night,” Sophie said, tears welling in her eyes. “She put me in the backseat. She told me to stay on the floor under a blanket and be very, very quiet. We were driving for a long time. Then the car stopped.”
Anthony fell to his knees, dropping the drawing. He pulled Sophie into his arms, burying his face in her small shoulder. He was weeping.
“You were in the car?” he choked out. “My baby… you were in the car when it crashed?”
Sophie hugged his neck. “I was scared, Daddy. The car got bumped really hard. We rolled down the hill. Mommy told me to unbuckle and crawl out the broken window. She pushed me out. She told me to run into the trees and hide. So I did.”
My heart shattered into a million pieces. This poor, sweet child had survived a horrific crash, crawled into the freezing woods, and watched her mother die. And she had kept it locked inside her little mind for five years, terrified to speak.
“And what did you see from the trees, sweetheart?” I asked gently, kneeling down beside them.
Sophie pointed at the drawing on the floor.
“I saw the lady in the green coat,” Sophie whispered. “She walked down the hill to Mommy’s car. Mommy was crying, asking for help. But the lady didn't help. She just stood there.”
Anthony stood up. The sorrow in his eyes vanished, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated violence of a mob boss who had just found his wife’s murderer.
He lunged.
Before I could even scream, Anthony had Isabella pinned by the throat against the heavy oak bookshelves. Books rained down on them as Isabella clawed frantically at his massive hands, her face turning purple.
“You killed her!” Anthony roared, spit flying from his lips. “You ran her off the road and stood there while she bled to death! I’m going to kill you, Isabella! I’m going to tear you apart!”
“Anthony, stop!” I screamed, grabbing his arm. “Not in front of Sophie! Please, don’t let her see this!”
Anthony’s chest heaved. He looked at his terrified daughter, who was clinging to my leg. Slowly, agonizingly, he released his grip.
Isabella collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, coughing violently as she rubbed her bruised neck.
“I didn't… run her off the road,” Isabella wheezed, tears streaming through her smeared makeup. “I swear to God, Anthony! I was following her! But someone else hit her car! Someone else ran her into the ravine!”
“Then why didn't you help her?” Anthony demanded, standing over her like an executioner. “If you didn't do it, why did you let her die?”
Isabella looked up, a twisted, bitter smile forming on her lips despite her terror.
“Because of what she had in the car, Anthony,” Isabella spat. “You think Elena was a saint? You think she was taking your daughter for a midnight drive? Look closely at your daughter’s precious drawing. Look at what the figure is holding.”
I quickly reached down and picked up the drawing.
I looked at the yellow and silver object in the stick figure's hand. At first glance, it looked like a flashlight. But as I stared closer at the details Sophie had painstakingly added—the little circles, the chain, the metallic casing—my blood turned to ice.
It wasn't a flashlight.
It was a vintage, silver pocket watch.
And I knew exactly who that watch belonged to. I had seen it every day for twelve years.
“Answer one,” Isabella wheezed, pulling herself up using the bookshelf. “I was at the crash site. I watched her die. Open two: Do you want to know why I let her die?”
Isabella reached into the bodice of her ruined red gown. With a violent yank, she tore something hidden against her skin and threw it onto the floor at Anthony’s feet.
It was a piece of stiff, faded cardboard.
As it landed face-up on the rug, my breath left my lungs.
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Behind the child’s drawing of murder and betrayal, Isabella had been hiding a perfectly preserved train ticket.
A train ticket out of Chicago, dated for the exact night Elena Romano died.
