Chapter 5 - THE SECRET IN THE BACKPACK
I froze.
The hallway was entirely empty, the sounds of morning classes muffled behind heavy wooden doors.
I let go of Emma’s hand.
“Go wait by the front doors, sweetheart,” I said softly.
Emma looked up at me, sensing the shift in the air.
“Daddy?”
“Go, Emma. Right now.”
She scurried down the hall.
When she was out of earshot, I turned around and walked slowly back to the principal’s office.
Miss Carter was standing in the doorway, clutching her purse.
Arthur Davis was behind her, looking like a man watching a bomb tick down to zero.
“What did you just say?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Miss Carter held her chin high, though her hands were shaking.
“I went through Emma’s backpack two weeks ago. Looking for the stolen supplies.”
She unzipped her purse.
“I found a diary. Emma’s diary.”
She pulled out a small, pink leather journal with a broken padlock.
I recognized it immediately.
I had bought it for Emma’s eighth birthday.
“You broke into my daughter’s diary?” I asked, the anger boiling so hot it felt cold.
“I am a mandated reporter, Mr. Brooks,” she said self-righteously. “When a child exhibits erratic behavior, it is my duty to investigate her home life.”
She opened the diary to a page marked with a sticky note.
“Emma wrote about the night her mother died.”
My chest tightened.
Sarah had died of an aneurysm when Emma was four. It was sudden. It was tragic. It broke our world in half.
“She had an aneurysm,” I said flatly.
“That’s what the obituary said,” Miss Carter replied. “But that’s not what Emma wrote.”
Miss Carter read from the pink pages.
‘Daddy was yelling. Mommy was crying. Then Mommy fell down and didn't wake up. Daddy told me to never tell anyone we were fighting.’
Miss Carter snapped the diary shut.
“You caused the aneurysm, didn't you, Daniel? You stressed her into a stroke. And you told your four-year-old daughter to cover it up.”
She looked at me with triumphant malice.
“You go to the police about a few bruises and a supply sale, and I go to Child Protective Services with a journal proving you mentally abuse your child and cover up domestic violence.”
I stared at her.
I stared at Arthur Davis, who now looked like he had found a life raft.
They were blackmailing me with the worst night of my life.
“You didn't read the next page, did you?” I asked.
Miss Carter frowned.
“What?”
I stepped closer to her.
“I told Emma not to tell anyone we were fighting because the fight was about a surprise family vacation to Disney World. I didn't want Emma to know we were arguing over the budget for her Christmas present.”
Miss Carter’s smug expression faltered.
“The medical examiner ruled it a spontaneous aneurysm,” I continued, my voice steady and hard. “The police report is public record. There was no foul play. There was no abuse.”
I snatched the pink diary out of her hand.
“But thank you for giving me this. Because now, when I call the police, I can add illegal search and seizure, and extortion to your charges.”
Miss Carter stepped back, hitting the doorframe.
“You’re bluffing,” she whispered.
“Try me.”
I turned and walked away.
I grabbed Emma’s hand at the front door and walked out into the cold morning air.
We got into my truck.
I locked the doors, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot.
I needed to get to Tommy Henderson’s father.
But as I drove down the street, my phone rang.
It was a restricted number.
I answered it on speakerphone.
“Hello?”
May you like
A voice, heavily muffled and distorted, came through the speakers.
“If you talk to the Henderson family, Mr. Brooks, the contract for the community center demolition will be permanently revoked. And your foundation will be audited by the IRS by noon.”
