Chapter 2 - THE BLUE NOTEBOOK
Maren sat on the edge of her daughter’s narrow twin bed, watching August sleep.
The morning sun filtered through the cheap blinds of their apartment, casting harsh yellow lines across the child’s face. August was curled into a tight, defensive ball. Even in sleep, her tiny shoulders were tense. Her thumb was near her mouth, but she wasn’t sucking it—a habit Elise, Graham’s new wife, had deemed “unacceptable for a Wycliffe.”
“Mama, do I have to go back because you were bad?”
The question from the night before echoed in Maren’s mind, a sickening loop that made her stomach churn. Graham had trained their daughter to believe that Maren’s boundaries were acts of aggression. Every time Maren stood up for herself, Graham framed it to August as Maren “ruining the family.”
Maren reached out and gently smoothed a stray curl from August’s forehead. The little girl whimpered, shifting away from the touch.
Maren pulled her hand back, a heavy lump forming in her throat. She stood up and walked to the small duffel bag sitting on the floor near the closet. It was the bag Graham had packed for August’s weekend visits. Maren usually just washed the clothes and sent them back, trying to maintain the fragile peace.
Today, she unzipped it with a sense of frantic purpose.
She pulled out a pair of stiff, scratchy designer dresses that Elise insisted August wear. Beneath them were a pair of pristine white tights and a set of flashcards meant for a first-grader. August was only four.
Then, her fingers brushed against something hard at the bottom of the bag.
It was a small, navy-blue leather notebook.
Maren frowned. She pulled it out. The leather was expensive, the Wycliffe family crest embossed subtly in the bottom right corner. It looked like the ledger Graham used for his architectural firm.
She opened the cover.
The handwriting was immaculate, sweeping, and written in sharp black ink. Elise’s handwriting.
Friday, 4:00 PM: Arrival. Did not properly greet Grandmother. 1 Demerit.
Friday, 6:30 PM: Dinner. Asked for water before her plate was cleared. 1 Demerit.
Saturday, 9:00 AM: Playtime. Laughed too loudly in the sunroom. 2 Demerits.
Maren’s breath hitched. She flipped the page, her hands beginning to shake. There were pages and pages of this. Weeks of weekends, meticulously documented.
Sunday, 11:00 AM: Cried for Mother. 3 Demerits. Consequence: Withheld lunch dessert. Required one hour of silent sitting.
“Silent sitting,” Maren whispered aloud. Her vision blurred with angry tears. They were treating a four-year-old like a prisoner of war.
A quiet rustle came from the bed.
“Mama?”
Maren snapped the book shut and quickly wiped her eyes. She turned to see August sitting up, her large brown eyes wide with immediate panic. August’s gaze darted to the blue notebook in Maren’s hands.
The little girl scrambled backward against the headboard, pulling her knees to her chest. “I’m sorry,” August whispered, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to bring it. Elise said it has to stay in my special drawer at Daddy’s house. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Maren dropped the notebook on the floor and rushed to the bed, kneeling beside it. “Oh, sweetie, no. You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
August shook her head frantically. “If the book leaves the house, I get five demerits. Five means the closet.”
The air was sucked from Maren’s lungs. “The closet?”
Before August could answer, a sharp, authoritative knock hammered against the apartment’s front door.
Maren froze. She knew that knock. Graham always knocked as if he already owned the building.
“Stay here,” Maren said softly, keeping her voice steady for her daughter’s sake. She walked out of the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind her.
She walked down the short hallway and unlocked the front door.
Graham stood on the welcome mat, dressed in a tailored Sunday suit that made the small, rundown apartment hallway look absurd. He was a handsome man, with sharp, aristocratic features and perfectly styled hair. But his eyes were like flat gray stones.
“You left the party abruptly last night, Maren,” Graham said, his voice a smooth, cultured purr. He didn’t wait for an invitation; he stepped into the apartment, forcing Maren to step back. “Elise was very upset. You made quite a scene.”
“I made a scene?” Maren’s voice trembled with a rage she fought to contain. “I found my daughter hiding under a table, shaking, because your wife was screaming at her.”
“Elise was not screaming,” Graham corrected, checking his gold watch. “She was correcting a behavioral issue. August knocked over a crystal vase. There are consequences for carelessness.”
“She is four years old, Graham!”
“And she is a Wycliffe,” Graham countered coldly. “I’m here to take her to Sunday brunch. Go get her ready. Elise bought her a new dress.”
“She’s not going anywhere with you.”
Graham’s eyes narrowed. The charming mask slipped, revealing the cruel, calculating man beneath. “Do not play games with me, Maren. Our custody agreement states—”
“I don’t care what the agreement states,” Maren interrupted. She stepped forward, pointing a shaking finger at his chest. “I found the blue notebook, Graham.”
For a fraction of a second, surprise flashed in Graham’s eyes. Then, it hardened into something far more dangerous.
“A mother’s tool for structure,” Graham said dismissively. “You were always too soft on her. She needs discipline.”
“She said you put her in a closet.”
“Children exaggerate.” Graham took a step closer, towering over her. “If you try to withhold my daughter, Maren, I will ruin you. I will call my lawyers today. I will tell the judge about your little depressive episode after she was born. I will take full custody, and you will become nothing but a weekend visitor. Now, get my daughter.”
Maren’s heart hammered against her ribs. She was terrified of his wealth, of his lawyers, of the very real possibility that he could take August away forever.
Suddenly, the front door, which Graham had left slightly ajar, was pushed open.
Standing in the hallway was Eleanor Wycliffe, Graham’s mother.
She was dressed impeccably in a beige trench coat, a string of heavy pearls around her neck. Eleanor had always been a silent, imposing figure, a woman who allowed her husband, and now her son, to rule the family with an iron fist. Maren had never once heard her contradict Graham.
Until now.
“Graham,” Eleanor said, her voice thin but sharp. “Go down to the car.”
Graham turned, shocked. “Mother? What are you doing up here? You were supposed to wait—”
“I said go to the car,” Eleanor repeated, her eyes fixed entirely on Maren. “We will not be taking August to brunch today.”
Graham’s face flushed with anger, but he had been raised to respect the matriarch. He shot Maren a venomous look. “This isn’t over,” he hissed, before brushing past his mother and marching down the stairs.
Maren stood frozen, unsure if she had just found an ally or if Eleanor was simply employing a different tactic.
Eleanor stepped into the apartment and quietly closed the door. She looked around the modest living room, her eyes lingering on August’s scattered toys.
“Mrs. Wycliffe,” Maren started defensively, “I won’t let him—”
Eleanor raised a gloved hand, silencing her. She reached into the pocket of her trench coat.
“You think Elise invented the notebook, Maren?” Eleanor asked quietly.
Maren blinked. “What?”
“You think this is a new cruelty?” Eleanor’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, a crack in her perfect porcelain facade. “Elise is merely playing the role my son designed for her. Just as I played it for his father.”
Eleanor pulled a small, faded object from her pocket and pressed it into Maren’s hand.
“Do not let him take that child,” Eleanor whispered. “Look at this. Then call my daughter, Sarah. She knows what to do.”
Before Maren could ask another question, Eleanor turned and walked out the door, the click of her heels echoing down the hallway.
Maren looked down at the object in her palm.
It was an old Polaroid photograph, dated from thirty years ago.
May you like
It showed a little girl—Graham’s sister, Sarah—hiding under the exact same antique dining table August had been hiding under last night. But what made Maren’s blood run cold wasn't the little girl.
It was the shadow of the person standing over the table, holding a thick leather belt.
